Riddle's War
by trickyink
Summary: It’s a pretty safe bet this isn’t the war you’re thinking of. It’s 1943, and Tom Riddle has found himself completely caught up in it. Like hundred of children he’s being evacuated, and dear God he’s not happy. Basically, a character development that took
1. Tom

Well, it's still my first official fanfic, but it's being posted again due to some rather embarrassing spelling errors… I really need to start reading canon again…

Disclaimer: one day I'd love to see an author come on and say, "ha, this is mine". Obviously authors don't have my wonderful sense of humour. Nope, tisn't mine. I'm sure even the plot's been rehashed a couple of times.

Chapter one: Tom

The mood in London was not a happy one. Houses lay in rubble, families had been torn apart – everywhere you looked there was another reminder. We're at war, the posters said, don't let yourself forget. As if they could with air raids sweeping over every night.

Yet despite it all, most people found reasons to smile. They laughed and sang and looked after each other. They found a silver lining and clung to it like a mother to her child. Because letting it go meant admitting how much trouble they were really in.

Of course not everyone was happy. Not everyone had reason to laugh or sing, and not everyone had people to look after them. Then there were some people who could find the tarnished spots on the silver lining without even trying. Tom Riddle was one of those people. And it just so happened he was rather proud of it – so it was hardly surprising that while the rest of the children in the orphanage were flitting around like drab little butterflies packing suitcases for evacuation, he was lying lethargically on his bed, flicking through a huge cloth bound book without reading a word.

There was no doubt in anyone's mind that he was extremely handsome, with fine, even features, raven-haired and hazel eyed. But if you caught him out of the corner of your eyes – as the old matron frequently reiterated after a few drinks – he always looked so different. His skin was too pale, his expression cold. Sometimes his hazel eyes looked crimson.

None of this bothered Tom. He knew he was good looking and he knew that sometimes he scared people. He also knew he could use both to his advantage. When he was younger the other orphans had been openly terrified of him; now, still afraid, they treated him almost with reverence. Unfortunately the new matron was another story.

'TOM! If you're not ready and down here in the next five minutes we're leaving you behind!' There was a moment's silence during which Tom did nothing but flip over another page and write a few notes. 'And I'm confiscating your books, _and_ you'll be looking after the little ones!'

Tom scowled, recognising the threat and clambered quickly out of bed. A few months ago this would never have happened – but then a few months ago they'd still had Mary Knight as a matron. Thick as mud and about as interesting, Knight had been the bane of every orphan's life until she'd had a strange accident involving a broom, a flight of stairs and a length of rope. Exactly _how_ she'd come to be hanging upside-down at the top of the stairs like a witch on a broomstick no one would say, but most of them had a pretty good idea. Everyone knew why. She'd hit Tom, and told him he was insane. That was grounds for execution in Tom's orphanage. Still, she'd been ever so docile after that.

School trunk bursting with minimal clothing and as many books as he could carry, Tom cast one last look around the room – and scooped up the volume he'd been reading, along with his notebook. Despite appearances he wasn't usually an avid reader – he far preferred action to instruction – but this wasn't reading, it was research. He felt like he'd read every book written on Hogwarts and come no closer to his goal. Now he was working on translations. Somewhere, amongst the yellowed pages there had to be some clues about Slytherin and his chamber. There had to be some clues about his past.

'_TOM!_'

The new matron, Miss Hardy, stood framed in the doorway. Tom had no idea why he couldn't control her like the others – his first thought had been that she needed a good scare, but nothing seemed to faze her. Perhaps because she was barely eighteen, and well brought up, she thought all the orphans should be fawning at her feet. He'd have to correct her, when he had time.

'Are you packed?'

'Yes, ma'am,' said Tom calmly, staring the woman straight in the eyes. To his immense satisfaction she looked down quickly, as if suddenly intensely interested in the floorboards.

'Well you'd better hurry up – Bob Johnson's getting his sister to drive your cases to the – that's your case?'

'Yes ma'am. Is there a problem?'

Hardy frowned, apparently lost for words. 'It's a bit…_large_ – but no, I shouldn't think so. Come along, or you'll be stuck with the younger children.' She smiled kindly, looking back up at Tom. 'I know you don't like them very much. In fact you don't seem to like anyone very much.'

Tom smiled sweetly, though it was obvious to anyone present it was fake. 'It's hard to make friends when you're gone half the year ma'am.'

'Yes, well mind you present yourself properly for your new family. You're such a handsome boy; you can have anyone you like. Maybe they'll even want to adopt you.'

Tom smiled again, genuinely, and this time there was nothing sweet about it. 'Don't worry ma'am,' he said, lifting up his trunk with some difficulty. 'I'm sure I'll be coming back.'

'Is everybody packed?' Hardy barked, looking disturbingly like a sergeant inspecting his troops as she walked down the line of children.

'Yes ma'am,' came the dull reply.

'This is your last chance to go back and collect anything you might need, do you understand?'

'Yes ma'am.'

'And there's nothing you need now that can't be sent by post later?'

'No ma'am.'

'Come on then.'

Tom rolled his eyes as the orphans were sent up one by one, giving up their meagre possessions to the butcher's son, Johnson. Exactly why he'd consented to help the orphans free of charge was a mystery to him – ah, that was it. Young Master Johnson was currently eyeing Hardy like a prime piece of meat. A year ago, maybe two, he probably would have been in with a chance, but Hardy didn't like war heroes. She preferred people whole, with both arms and legs still intact. She wasn't the only one either.

Muggles were fascinating creatures, Tom had found, even more so when they were at war. They were fantastic at ignoring the problems staring them right in the face – in fact, they ridiculed the people smart enough to point them out. Anyone with the guts to stand up and say: "actually, I think we might be losing this", or any boys who didn't fancy going out to get killed were dubbed traitors, spies or cowards. And then there were people like Bob Johnson who'd actually managed to survive – what did they get? A brief smile from their loves and a visit every Sunday from the vicar's wife.

'Damn,' said Tom suddenly, feeling around in his pocket. His wand wasn't there.'

'Tom!'

'Yes ma'am?'

'What have I told you about swearing?'

'Not a lot ma'am, to be perfectly honest. I was wondering if I could just pop back up to my room –'

'What do you want?' asked Hardy, coming to rest in front of him. Tall for his age, Tom managed to stand a head above her, but Hardy had an inexplicable way of making a person feel six inches high.

'My –' Tom began, then hesitated. 'A book, ma'am.'

'Don't you think you've got enough books? Come on, Johnson's waiting.'

The other children, who a second ago had been chattering excitedly at the prospect of new homes fell suddenly silent. This new matron obviously didn't know the rules – no one dared deny Tom anything.

'It's rather important,' said Tom between clenched teeth, his voice positively glacial.

'I don't care,' said Hardy simply. 'Catch up with the others, now.'

'Excuse me –' Tom pushed past her but Hardy grabbed his arm. A second later she let go with a stifled shriek and the orphans began talking again, in loud, forced voices. Tom strode off, his face scarlet.

What kind of self-respecting fourteen-year-old wizard still didn't have full control over his magic? True, incidents like that were not unheard of amongst young wizards, but they happened to Tom far too often. Windows and mirrors would crack, glasses smash – all because he'd let himself become too agitated. It happened when he slept as well. Hardy though he walked in his sleep, but the cook and the other orphans knew better. They knew when to leave him alone.

Tom burst into his room and lifted up the mattress, snatching the wand from its hiding place underneath. It may have been nothing more than a thin strip of wood, but it was his most valuable possession. Fortunately the orphans also knew better than to steal his things.

Wait for it, he thought grimly, and sure enough the voice came rocketing up the stairs.

'TOM MARVOLO RIDDLE!'

Tom winced at the use of his full name, pocketed his wand and went flying down the stairs once more. At least Hardy had sounded scared. Maybe today wasn't going to be so bad after all.

A/N: ta da and all that jazz. Not much to say here, except leave a review. Looking back now after a few edits I think I mightmake some changes to this chapter – I think tom's character has developed quite a lot, as has his situation in the orphanage. I'll do it _after_ the exams though lol.


	2. On Evacuation and Appearances

gets down on knees and prays she spelt it right… Yes, I have lost all faith in my literary abilities, because now "McGonagall" looks wrong! Anyways…

Disclaimer: All right, so they're not my toys. But I reserve my right to steal, play and return them only slightly damaged to their original owners. Happy is the woman who owns Tom Riddle…

Chapter Two: On Evacuation and Appearances

_He tried to push them aside but they fell back against him, their cold, heavy forms slamming into his arms and legs, shifting and squirming, pressing in on all sides…he couldn't move, he was drowning in snakes; they writhed all about him, below his feet around his arms – even slithering down his throat…_

Tom felt himself jerked into consciousness – his eyes snapped open, glancing quickly around. He was on a train, not _the_ train, of course. Just a normal, muggle train. And there were definitely no snakes. Good.

If anyone had taken a closer look at Tom at that moment, they would have noticed he was far paler than usual, and that his pulse had just shot up at an alarming rate. As it happened, no one did, and Tom was able to disguise the fact his dream had scared him at all. The heir of Slytherin could not be afraid of snakes. The mere idea was ridiculous.

Then again, maybe someone was watching him; Tom could feel their eyes of him. His glanced up and came face to face with a small, rosy cheeked little girl with large brown eyes half hidden by an adult sized pink hat.

'Hello,' she said sweetly, offering a small, pudgy hand. 'I'm Grace.'

Tom raised a single thin eyebrow, but was spare answering as one of the orphans interrupted. Tom was pretty sure his name was Oliver – about eleven years old, one of the scruffier boys – definitely Oliver.

'You don't want to go latching onto 'im,' he muttered darkly, deliberately not looking at Tom. 'If you want someone to take care of you, I'm your bloke. 'E doesn't care 'bout no one.'

'And what's that supposed to mean?' asked Tom coolly, smirking at the sudden look of terror on Oliver's face.

'I didn't mean it like that sir,' he said, eyes widening in shock. 'Only you don't like the younger ones, do you? Please don't do nothing strange to me, like you did to Knight. That was brilliant, sir, what 'appened to 'er.'

'What makes you think I did it?' said Tom. He was already bored of the conversation – he wished he could get out a book, finish up that last translation. It was looking promising, even if it was mostly nonsense.

''Cause I saw you,' said Oliver with a bright little smile that disappeared the second his saw Tom's face.

'Saw me what?'

'Saw what you did to Knight, sir, with that –'

'Quiet!' Tom barked; several children stirred and turned over in their sleep.

'But –'

'Unless you want worse happening to you, I suggest you keep your mouth _shut_. Now what did you see me doing?'

After what seemed like a lifetime, Oliver finally caught on. 'Nothing, sir.'

'Good boy.'

Grace had been watching them both throughout the whole conversation. 'I like you,' she said finally to Oliver. 'But you,' she added to Tom, 'I don't like you.'

'Good.'

'Why?'

'Because _I_ don't like you.'

Tom had half expected the silly little child to cry, but to his annoyance her face split into a delighted grin – the sunny kind of smile that would have won the ugliest orphan a pair of cooing parents.

'You're funny!'

'No I'm not,' Tom groaned. Would it have killed Dippet to let him stay at school over the summer holidays? For God's sake, there was a war on; of _course_ he'd be safer at Hogwarts! Two months in the forbidden forest would have been better than this!

'Yes you are,' said Grace, as if that settled the matter. She moved to sit next to Tom, leaning against his shoulder. Tom tensed instantly and shifted back, but she wouldn't take the hint. 'I do like you.'

'Grace!' hissed Oliver, recognising the danger signs, but someone had already taken Grace's vacated seat. A tall teenage girl, a good few years older than Tom with raven hair hanging in twin plaits either side of her face. She wasn't really beautiful, but she would have looked great deal prettier without the thin lipped frown on her face.

'You seem good with children,' she said, and Tom was surprised to hear her speaking with a strong Scottish accent.

'We're not near London anymore, are we?'

'We passed Birmingham about half an hour ago. A bunch of children got on last station, we came down from Edinburgh. A London boy, then?'

'Not by choice,' said Tom curtly, trying to shift Grace, who was pretending to sleep on his shoulder, her hat now completely obscuring her face.

'Let her lie.'

'She's not asleep. Oliver, get rid of her.'

'Yessir,' said Oliver, pulling Grace roughly up by the arm, ignoring her indignant squeak. 'Come on Gracie,' he added in a fatherly tone. 'Come sit with me, I'll tell you a story.'

'What about?'

'An orphan.'

'Aren't you the charming one?' said the girl coolly, though there was a smile on her lips, and sure enough she looked much better for it.

'When I want to be,' said Tom, yawning pointedly.

'No use falling asleep now, we're nearly there.'

'Oh yes? Where's "there" anyway?'

'I'm not exactly sure. Somewhere near Shropshire.'

'I don't even know where that is.'

She smiled again. 'A smart boy like you ought to know some geography.'

'What makes you think I'm smart?'

'There's a notebook and pen sticking out your pocket, your trunk's practically bursting with books, you speak like an oxford schoolboy and you've won the excellence prize at school every year since you started.'

Tom blinked. 'Ah.'

'Ah indeed.' She cast a furtive glance around, but nearly everyone was asleep and Grace (now utterly convinced that as an orphan Oliver had to be a long lost prince of some sort) was bombarding the unfortunate Oliver with questions. 'According to the teachers you're brilliant. Obviously not at geography, but otherwise brilliant.'

Tom made a small, non-committal noise and turned to glance out the window. They'd been travelling for hour – they had to be getting near to _somewhere_.

'And introverted. Yes, they said that as well.'

'You're in Gryffindor, aren't you?' asked Tom, liking the girl less and less with each comment.

'How did you know?'

'Lucky guess.'

A few seconds passed in silence before the girl spoke again. 'Don't you want to know who I am?'

'Not particularly.'

'Fine. They said you were obnoxious too.'

'If "they" happen to be other Gryffindors I can't say I really care.'

Grace meanwhile, having grown tired of her story, rounded on Tom. 'Are you an orphan to?'

'Yes,' said Tom icily.

'Are you a prince?'

'No.'

'Are you sure?'

'Grace,' said Tom softly, fixing on his most charming smile. 'Could you do something for me?' The child nodded dumbly, pushing up her hat as it fell in her eyes once more. 'Go throw yourself under the train.'

'Tom!' said the girl sharply.

For a second Grace looked like she was actually considering it – then she began to laugh shrilly, waking up the children around her.

'I _do_ like you Tom,' she giggled, throwing her little arms around him, much to Tom's disgust. 'I hope we get the same family. Then I can be your sister!'

'Now there's a thought,' Tom muttered, peeling the child off and handing her over to the girl. 'Do you want to keep it? She's very affectionate.'

The girl laughed and opened her mouth to reply, but she was interrupted by the screech of brake as the train pulled to a stop.

'We're here!' Grace shrieked in apparent ecstasy, waking up the remainder of the carriage. 'We're here, we're here! Come with me Tom!'

She grabbed Tom's arm but he didn't move, turning instead to Oliver.

'If you take her I swear I will never bully you or any of your friends again. If you don't –'

'All right,' Oliver moaned. 'I'll take 'er. Come Gracie,' he added gloomily. 'I'll introduce you to the other orphans. Maybe we'll find your prince.'

Grace squealed, let go of Tom and skipped after Oliver, who was looking up at Tom as if he was awaiting his execution.

'Poor child,' said the girl, though she couldn't stop smiling. 'I never had you pegged as a bully, Mr Riddle. Need some help with your trunk?'

'No thank you,' said Tom, though he was struggling slightly under the weight.

'I'm used to it – I usually end up carrying the first years' –'

'_No thank you_.'

The girl shrugged and busied herself with her own luggage – a Hogwarts trunk, Tom noticed. Normally getting off a train meant another year of magic, another chance at doing something he was truly exceptional at. Now he was heading off into an unknown village with a Gryffindor, an orphanage brat and the most annoying child he'd ever met in his life.

It was freezing on the platform, far too cold for July, but Tom barely noticed. He'd forgotten to ask the girl something important.

'Sorry,' he muttered, making sure he had her attention. 'I completely forgot to ask. Are you a pureblood?'

'Not that it matters,' she hissed back haughtily, taking the nametag from the heavily moustached man handing them out. 'But yes, I am. My name's Min McGonagall. You might have heard of me.'

'Move it you two,' said the man, pushing them both aside. Tom scowled, stepping forward angrily but Min shook her head and laid a calming hand on his arm. 'Let him be. It's got to be stressful, hasn't it, shipping all these kids around? Imagine dealing with a train full of Grace's.'

'Why are you talking about me?' said a perky voice from somewhere around Tom's waist. 'Are you being mean? I'll tell on you.'

'I'm sorry sir,' Oliver mumbled, popping up beside the pink hatted child. 'I can't get rid of 'er. Me mates aren't getting off this stop so can – can I stay with you?'

'No.'

'Of course you can,' said Min kindly, taking up the boy's arm, though it left her struggling with her trunk. 'Come on,' she added, in a voice that reminded Tom horribly of Hardy. 'We've got a fair walk ahead of us.'

Min wasn't lying; Tom had lost count of the houses they trailed past, children peeling off to join their new families. He knew full well if he stood at the front he'd be one of the first chosen – well dressed, handsome boys were more likely to be chosen than dirty, rough kids from the centre of London.

It had been the same with prospective parents; they always went for Tom above the others. Even as a toddler it had been obvious he was going to turn out a gentleman – and gentlemen were hard to come by in East End orphanages. He had been the jewel of Knight's little collection, yet the adoptions never fell through. The parents always changed their minds at the very last second and handed the child back at arm's length. Then Tom had grown old enough to decide he didn't want to be adopted – _then_ he had started school. After that he wasn't even going to let the muggles talk to him, let alone take him home.

The best way to avoid them was to hang around at the back, head down, and that was exactly what he was doing now, using Min, Grace and Oliver as a shield against the smiling mothers hunting for a few more sons. Gradually the crowd shrunk and shrunk, until there were only eight of them left.

The stood outside a large, grey brick mansion with dozens of ornate windows and scarlet roses clawing their way up the walls. Despite its obvious grandeur however, the bricks were crumbling, the windows were blacked out and half the roses were dead, whilst the rest grew wild.

The moustached man knocked on the door and called in a gravely voice: 'Mrs Grey! Mrs Grey! Mrs –'

'_What?_'

The door had flown open revealing a woman of thirty in her night-dress, her hair half done up in pin curls. She was definitely beautiful, with shell pink lips and azure eyes, at least half her blonde hair flowing down to her shoulder blade, but she wore a scowl that told them all quite plainly no children were being taken in to her house.

'Mrs Grey,' the man began. 'No doubt you will have heard –'

'There's no room,' she said crossly. 'My son will be home on leave soon and I don't want him coming back to a house full of evacuee brats.'

Tom couldn't help but smile, though he earned himself a dig in the ribs from Min.

'Don't do that,' he hissed.

'Do what?'

'Elbow me.'

'It didn't hurt.'

'I don't care, don't –'

'Be quiet!' Mrs Grey snapped, glancing over at Tom and Min – then her scowl vanished. _Oh God_, thought Tom bitterly, _here it comes_.

'Mrs Grey?'

'Him,' she said firmly, not taking her eyes off Tom. 'I'll take him.'

The moustached man shifted uncomfortably where he stood, as if he was afraid of the woman. 'I'm afraid due the numbers of evacuees we've receive, we're asking each able household to take at least two –'

'Fine. I'll take that lot. As long as he comes.'

'You will of course get an increase in ration – excuse me?'

'I said I'll take them all. I'm an able household, am I not?'

'Well,' said the moustached man, unable to hide his delight. 'Thank you, Mrs Grey – now there's a meeting at the school tomorrow morning so they can be introduced to the community, and you'll need –'

'Yes, yes,' said Mrs Grey, still not looking away from Tom. He was starting to get annoyed now, not to mention extremely uncomfortable. This must have been what it was like for the others when he stared at them. 'Come along now children,' she added, moving out the way so everyone could get in. 'We'll find you somewhere to sleep for tonight and get you set up properly in the morning. Yes some of you can sleep on the sofa can't you? Not you,' she added to Tom, who had headed over to a good-sized chaise long, trunk dragging behind him. 'Let the orphans sleep down here, you should have my son's room – you two,' she added to Min and Grace, 'can share with my daughter. CECILE!' she barked, making everyone jump. 'Come out and meet your houseguests!'

A waif like figure of about thirteen came floated down the stairs in a Victorian style night-gown, blonde hair streaming down to her waist. She was the spitting image of Mrs Grey, only with no lines on her face and an odd, unsubstantial air about her. Tom felt as if he could walk straight through her if he tried.

Cecile smiled at them all graciously, though her face fell the second she set eyes on Tom. 'Mamma –' she began hesitantly, but Mrs Grey cut her off.

'Go and set up the spare bed in your room – I'm afraid two of you may have to share for tonight,' she added to Min and Grace. 'Now,' she said, turning to the group. 'You may call me mamma or mamma Rosa or anything acceptable that springs to mind but I will hear no madames, ma'ams or Mrs's out of any of you, do you understand? And if you must insult me, make sure I'm out of earshot.'

'Yes mamma,' trilled the orphans in their usual monotone.

'Mademoiselle?' said Tom flatly, earning himself a giggle from Cecile and a fake smile from Rosa.

'At least you've got a brain on you,' said Rosa. 'What's the matter, child?'

'Let Min have her own room,' said Tom, surprising himself as he said it. Normally he'd jump at the chance for a place to shut himself away, but his intuition was telling him quite firmly that no good was going to come from obeying Rosa Grey. Besides, once she knew where he belonged she'd probably be less eager to look after him. 'You said it yourself, the orphans should stay down here.'

He expected Rosa's expression to cloud, for her to agree that it was best, but instead the fake smile broke into a genuine one and she lifted up his trunk, starting up the stairs.

'I think you're going to like it here – sorry – what did you say your name was?'

'I didn't.'

'And what is it?'

'Tom Riddle.'

Rosa frowned slightly, as if she didn't like the name, but her expression soon brightened again.

'Well Tom, I think you're going to like it here.'

Tom wasn't listening; he was staring at the wall of the staircase, feeling slightly sick. The wallpaper was barely visible under the myriad of photographs, all of the same boy, from toddler to teenager – and every single one looked uncannily like Tom. Not exactly, but more than enough to persuade Rosa Grey into taking him in.

'Ma'am –' he began angrily, but Rosa cut him off.

'Come on now, I said no ma'am. You're an orphanage boy through and through, aren't you? Though you certainly don't show it. I suppose you're well educated?' she added casually, as if it was the kind of question a person just threw around when making acquaintances.

'Yes.' _Though not in anything you'll approve of_, Tom though to himself. Wonderful, he was trapped in a madhouse with a woman who saw him as a perfect replacement son. Let's see if she thought he was still perfect by the end of the week.

'Here's your room.' Rosa's face fell slightly. 'I do hope you like it here.'

Tom sighed, then smiled his charming false smile. 'Of course, _mamma_,' he said, with only the tiniest hint of sarcasm. 'Don't worry about me. I'm sure I'll have fun.'

A/N: Ugh. Grace is vile – not in the way I intended. Have you ever seen a child more likely to grow into a Mary-Sue? And the worse thing? I based her personality exactly on a real seven year old.


	3. Cecile

Disclaimer: lays peace offering at the shrine of the copyrighters I hereby renounce all ownership of the wonder that is hp. Lord, I've actually gone crazy…

Chapter Three: Cecile

Tom awoke early that morning from a mercifully dreamless sleep, sat groggily up, and nearly fell out of bed. Cecile was standing over him, ghostlike as ever in a flowing white dress, holding out a breakfast tray. Not that there was actually much breakfast there – it was mostly expensive looking china and cutlery, presenting the weak tea and dry toast the best they could. Tom reached out to take it, but Cecile let the tray fall on the bed, hot water splashing out of the silver teapot and down Tom's front.

'What are you trying to do?' he snapped. He wasn't burnt, the flannel pyjamas had saved him from that, but he was completely soaked.

'I'm sorry,' said Cecile quickly, though there was an odd little smile tugging at her lips that said she was anything but. 'I'll get a towel –'

'Don't bother.'

'There's no need to be rude about it,' she said airily, though she was definitely smiling now. 'Get up, you should have ready by now. You're going to miss the meeting for the evacuees, and mamma's _not _going to like that.'

'When does it start?'

'Half an hour ago.'

Tom looked up into Cecile's pretty face with growing dislike. He didn't exactly _want _to be in Rosa's good books, but he wasn't going to ignore a personal attack like that. All the same, he couldn't help feeling some respect for the girl. Cecile Grey suddenly seemed a lot more solid.

'I'm taking Min around the village this afternoon,' she was saying, picking up the tray and placing it gently on the beside table. 'You're coming too.'

It was Tom's turn to smile. 'Oh I am, am I?'

'Yes, actually, you are.' Cecile glanced nervously at the door then up at a large oil portrait that Tom hadn't noticed before. It was of the room's previous owner, staring down at them with a haughty air that reminded Tom far too much of himself. Cecile was watching him intently now, the smile gone from her face. 'At least you're not stupid. You're coming out this afternoon. There are things you need to know, and I don't want _her_ to hear me telling you.'

Tom laughed coolly. 'Very cloak and dagger.'

'Do you want me to pour the rest of the water down your neck? You can come with me and listen to what I have to say, or you can spend the afternoon babysitting your little mates.'

'Why do people always assume I don't like small children?'

'_Riddle._'

'Fine, I'll go,' Tom snapped, his mind already on the books hidden under the bed. With the house practically empty he could really get some work done. 'You know, I don't want to live here anymore than you want me to.'

'What makes you think I don't –'

'The scalding water was a bit of a give-away. You know I'll have to get revenge for that, don't you?'

He half expected Cecile to throw the breakfast tray at him, but she simply rolled her eyes and sauntered out the room with a final, daring comment:

'I'd like to see you try.'

Tom sighed, scanning down the yellowed page before him. They were just notes, written in a clumsy, childish hand with no punctuation – but it was only Latin, not too hard to translate. Unfortunately it was total gibberish.

…_as long as any shall live the answer will come easily to those meant to find it well isn't that wonderful then what about those who aren't the bloodline's really gone he wouldn't want the cause lost forever must be something must be something…_

And if that wasn't bad enough, there was the fragment of text he'd found rolled up in the spine. Now that definitely wasn't Latin. It was made up of tiny, delicate glyphs and it had taken him almost a year to decipher. And it didn't make any sense.

…_ask a snake enter, listen what it says. Take the right path is be in the wrong place…_

It was the most promising thing he'd found and it was useless. _Useless._ He'd forced down his fear and scoured the forest looking snakes, but the answers he'd got made about as much sense as the Latin translations. Every creature had heard of the chamber, every one had stories to tell, but there was nothing real. Nothing useful.

'Why don't you make sense?' he moaned, staring at the words, willing then to make sense.

'Why doesn't what make sense? Can I help? Please?'

Tom jumped, slamming the book shut with his notes inside. Grace was standing beside him, along with Min, Oliver, Cecile and what looked like half the orphanage.

'My teacher says I'm a brilliant reader,' she went on blithely, trying and failing to snatch the book off Tom. 'Is this your book? Isn't it _old_ – yuck, and it _smells_ – don't you want a new one?'

'Grace,' he sighed, unable to think of anything else to say to the oblivious little girl. 'Be quiet. Go away. And please, take the others with you.'

'She's only interested in your work,' said Min reproachfully. She looked like a mother hen with the children clustered around her – even Cecile stood at her shoulder, looking as innocent as ever.

'This isn't the sort of work she ought to be interested in.'

'Oh. Schoolwork?'

'School related,' Tom muttered, picking up the book before Grace could grab it.

Min nodded, plaits swinging forwards either side of her head. 'Rosa sent us up to get you. Apparently you're getting some fresh air whether you like it or not.'

Tom looked up sharply, the book falling to the bed. Grace leapt on it with a joyful squeal. 'And what if I don't like it?'

'Come on Tom,' said Cecile, fixing him with a surprisingly piercing stare. 'You said you would. You can't stay inside forever.'

'That's what Rosa said. She may think the world of you, Riddle, but that doesn't mean she's going to let you laze around all day.'

'It doesn't make sense,' Grace snapped suddenly, holding the book out to Min. 'What does it say?'

'Don't –' Tom began sharply, but Min simply shook her head.

'I don't know what it says Gracie.' She handed the book back to Tom, a worryingly calculating look on her stern face. 'But I know what it _is_,' she added in a low voice as they started down the stairs. 'How did you get hold of it? Valerius would rather die than loan out that book.'

Tom smirked. Valerius, the librarian. A wizened little man with skin like parchment and shining, liquid eyes that could have been drops of ink. He may have looked like a book but fortunately he wasn't as wise; a few confunding charms and a saccharine sweet smile was all it took to borrow the necessary material.

'He said I was a special case.'

'Oh really?' said Min, making it quite clear she didn't believe him. 'And there was me thinking it was against school rules to lend forth years books from the restricted section.'

'I'll be in the fifth year when I get back.'

'Then I should think you'd be concentrating on exams, not illicit texts.'

Tom ignored her for the rest of the journey.


	4. A Little Bit Crazy

I've come to the conclusion that, bar Tom, who is to say the least a little confused, I really don't like any of my characters. Ah well, we muddle through…

Disclaimer: this gets quite depressing after a while. No, I did not manage to come up with the concept of Harry Potter or Tom Riddle first. Hence the term "fanfiction".

Can you tell I'm in a good mood?

Chapter Four: A Little Bit Crazy

It had be said Cecile Green was an interesting creature. Tom had taken her to be a weak, well-mannered girl very much under her mother's thumb. Right now she striding along the road, flanked by two burly sixteen year old boys, smiling prettily at them whilst glancing coolly back every few seconds to make sure Tom and Min were following. Tom hated to admit it, but she really was quite like him. At first he'd been impressed, now he wasn't so sure. Apparently he was extremely annoying.

'Where are we going exactly?' said Min suddenly. 'We're not in the village anymore.'

It was true. The road was fast turning from uneven stone to a dusty dirt track; they were heading out of the village, past the train station to the woods that surrounded it. Tom had to admit he preferred the city to the countryside any day – it seemed safer somehow. In London he knew every street and alleyway around the orphanage, but out here – anywhere where the walls weren't made of brick and were constantly changing – there was nowhere to hide. That wasn't to say he liked being in the orphanage more: Hogwarts wasn't exactly in a built up area, but the castle itself often felt like a city, even a country. There were literally hundreds of secret rooms and passages, and they had the happy tendency to stay the same. No one knew the castle better than Tom. And he wanted to know it better still.

That was how it had begun, just plain curiosity – the word destiny hadn't even entered his head. Neither had obsession, for that matter. He'd been reading 'Hogwarts – A History', possibly the most innocent of all schoolbooks, and realised the castle was still withholding one or two irresistibly mysterious secrets. A chamber, concealed in Hogwarts's walls, the last example of Salazar Slytherin's mastery of magic, and of the castle itself.

He'd always known, from the moment he'd found the wizarding world waiting for him, that he was something to do with Slytherin. Something important. For God's sake, he could talk to snakes – how could that be normal? After about a week of sitting in the library every lunch, break and evening doing research, Tom had begun to realise what being a Parselmouth could mean. Being descended from one of the founders…it was the wizarding equivalent of royalty. But not Slytherin, apparently. Because he was _wrong_, because he was prejudiced, he was evil.

_But he outsmarted them,_ he'd thought, pouring over an excerpt about the Godlike treatment of Parselmouths in France and Southern Europe. _There's a monster in the school, because he put it there. The founders couldn't find it – the headmasters couldn't find it – Slytherin was the powerful one. What if they said he was evil because they were jealous, or afraid? What if Slytherin was right?_

And that thought had been rather hard to shake.

Cecile had fallen into step beside him now, ushering an unenthusiastic looking Min towards the boys. She smiled briefly at him, then frowned as Tom ignored her.

'Penny for them,' she said in the too-polite tone of someone trying very hard to sound like they care.

'What?'

'Penny for your thoughts. Don't tell me you've never heard the phrase –'

'_Yes_,' Tom interrupted through gritted teeth. 'Of course I've – never mind. You said there was a reason for our little nature hike?'

Cecile nodded, suddenly serious. 'It's about my mother.'

'I never would have guessed.'

'You might think the photographs are a bit strange…'

'Heaven forbid,' Tom muttered distractedly; they had just reached the edge of a little patch of woodland, bluebells spilling across the grass. It was beautiful really, birds piping out their summer song, branches and leaves pushing into the sky to give them some shade. There may have been a war on, but nature wasn't getting involved. It was perfectly content to sit and wait for man to sort itself out. Min was perched on a tree stump with queen-like dignity, the boys either side of her. She had to be a pure blood, Tom was certain now. He hadn't taken him long to decide, but her obvious confusion when faced with a steam iron had made a good hint.

'You know, I don't have to explain,' Cecile was saying, a childish pout forming on her lips. 'I could just let things happen – but I love my mother, and I don't want her falling any deeper than she has already –'

'Who was he then?'

'My brother,' said Cecile, and Tom was horrified to see her eyes fill with tears. 'His name was Robert. He was an officer, C battalion. He could have been captain, if he'd wanted to.'

Tom nodded, each 'was' hitting him as if Cecile had shouted it.

'He was shot,' Cecile finished grimly. 'In the back, running away from the fighting. Only mother didn't like being told that. She'd rather believe he was missing in action.'

'I'm sure she's not the only one. Some children were taken to the orphanage a few weeks ago after loosing their father.' Tom allowed himself a small smile at the memory of the two, pale-faced boys as they stood in the doorway, tired, shaken and terrified. He hadn't exactly felt sorry for them, but he'd certainly taken the time to introduce himself properly. 'We were told their mother had –'

'It's not the same,' Cecile snapped. 'She still talks to him, she _screams_ at him for going, all the time. Sometimes she mistakes people for him…' Cecile looked determinedly down at the grass. 'What's going to happen if she gets angry with _you_? You're making things worse. '

'Is that all?'

'_You don't understand._ She thinks you're Robert, come back again. He was only a few years older than you. I'm not sure if she thinks you're our Robert from the front, or some kind of second chance – I don't really care. She can't get better with you around, they'll take her away to God knows where – what's going to happen to me?'

Tom smirked. 'An orphanage, perhaps?'

'I want you to _go_.'

'Where? It's a fairly long walk back to London.'

'I'll pay your fare –'

'What if I like it here?' said Tom lightly, thoroughly enjoying the frustration and anger that had turned Cecile's pretty, pallid face scarlet.

'You said –'

'I know, I know. But I think I'll change my mind. How am I supposed to get my revenge on you all the way from London?'

'This isn't a game, Riddle!'

'What on earth are you two shouting about?' said Min suddenly, getting up and walking over. 'Can we go back now?' she added quietly, glancing back at the boys. 'Those two aren't big on conversation. The most I've got out of them so far is –'

'Greg, stop it,' Cecile interrupted, calling across to the boys, one of whom appeared very interested in a patch of ground near the woodland's edge. 'Let it go – Edward, get him away from there before he gets hurt – '

'Don't worry, I can catch it,' Greg replied just as Edward bent down to help him. Tom looked over in disgust; whatever they'd caught seemed to be screaming softly. 'Bloody hell, it's huge.'

'I can only apologise,' said Cecile coolly, carefully ignoring Tom. 'They're true Neanderthals at heart.'

Min smiled. 'I don't doubt that for a second. What have they caught?'

'It's been so odd – for the last few weeks, the woods have been completely infested with snakes; they're even getting into the houses. No one's quite sure where they're coming from. Some of the boys like to keep them as pets. Generally they just kill them.'

'That's awful!'

'They've been killing pheasants and chickens, and Mr Fennel swears blind one's brought down one of his sheep. They're worse than the foxes.'

'All the same –'

Tom didn't bother to listen to anymore of Min's protests, and certainly not to Cecile's explanations – he couldn't be bothered with Cecile Grey at all anymore. He'd go when he felt like it, or at the very least at the end of July. Besides, now he had the boys to deal with.

'Tom, Cecile's taking us back for dinner.'

'I'll catch up,' said Tom, not taking his eyes of the boys.

'You don't know the way back.'

'I'll follow Edward and Gregory here. You go ahead,' he insisted, clocking the suspicious look Min was giving him. He'd have to be careful.

Min hovered for a second, but Cecile had soon linked arms with her and dragged the unfortunate Gryffindor off down the track, drowning her in gushing conversation about the sheer stupidity of boys. There was an edge to her words too. Tom had obviously upset her. Then again, if someone was threatening the sanity of someone he cared about, he'd be upset too.

_And they wonder why you don't get attached to people…_

The two boys crouched on the grass before him were nothing special, in looks or, apparently, personality. One blond, one redhead, one wiry the other burly, they both seemed to be taking great delight in torturing the sleek jet snake that was currently writhing on the ground.

Tom expected to be afraid, but he wasn't. Anger sparked in his chest. This was _wrong_.

The snake had already been killed; the gash across its underbelly had seen to that. But it wasn't quite dead, and it was screaming, thrashing under the clumsy grip of the pocketknife wielding Greg, snapping its teeth blindly.

It was pitiful.

'Finish it,' said Tom curtly. Both boys jumped; they hadn't seen him there. The sudden appearance of a deathly pale, sharp-tongued teenager would be enough to give anyone a start. Especially if he was ordering murder.

_Not murder. She's already been killed._ Tom didn't ask how he knew the sex, or how he knew she was a mother with a clutch of eggs cooling deep in the woods. Trying to block out the strange, gentle screaming, he knelt down between the boys. _She's just not dead yet._

'You're that brat Cecile's been talking about,' said Edward coolly. He couldn't have been more than a few months older than him, and Tom fought the urge to turn around and jinx him for his condescension. 'Never shuts up about you. If I didn't know better, I'd say she hated you.'

'If he didn't know better,' Greg echoed with a smirk. 'Dunno what you see in her Ed – oh no you don't –' he added as the snake twisted out of his grasp, making another wild bite.

_Oh, you have got to be kidding._

'_HUMANS!' _the snake suddenly shrieked, interrupted a potential horrifying train of thought. _'Foul, selfish, petty – filth –'_ again she trued to bite, and hissed in frustration.

'_A little to the left,_' Tom breathed, his head close to the serpent. With a hiss that to Tom sounded like a kind of war cry – like a mother who knew she had to leave her babies, and was determined to go down fighting – teeth met flesh and Greg's bellowed profanity shook the nearby birds from the trees. Without pausing to think, he picked up the knife and silenced the screaming once and for all.

'I'm dying –'

'No, you're not.'

'I am,' Greg wailed, holding up his bleeding hand for Edward to examine. 'I'm poisoned –'

'She wasn't poisonous. Not really.'

Edward raised his eyebrows. '_Not really?_'

'So you'll bleed for a bit,' said Tom vaguely. 'Get it treated quick and you should survive.'

He wasn't really paying attention. He was certain something was watching him from the cover of the woods. Maybe he shouldn't have killed her like that…_she was in pain. Besides, she was just a snake. You don't like snakes. They scare you._

'You did something,' said Edward slowly. Tom looked up sharply, jerked back to reality by his words.

'Don't be ridiculous.'

'You – you said something, just before it –'

'Ed,' Greg moaned, holding his bleeding hand tightly. He'd already managed to streak scarlet across his face by brushing back his hair. 'You heard what he said. Look, there's Cecile –'

That was enough for Edward. It also provided Tom with another serious reality check. Both girls were watching from a distance, Min looking suspicious once again, Cecile looking disgusted.

'I take it back,' she called over to him. 'You'd fit in fine in my house. You're obvious completely out of your mind.'

It took a great deal of self-control not to answer.

'Cecile –'

'Min, he cut of its head. Come on boys,' she added coolly. 'Now. That needs looking at. And Edward's right. You did something.'

Once again, Tom wasn't really listening. His eyes were on the dead serpent. Why was he bothered? It was a _snake_. Why not let it suffer? He couldn't begin to work it out, not straight away. He had to focus on the things he could fix. Like Cecile. She wanted him to leave. She'd said he was out of his mind.

Finally at the end of its death throes, the snake twitched and lay still. Tom looked up quickly, checking he was, bar the strange gaze from the woods, completely alone. He reached out to the snake, smiling gently.

There was nothing wrong with being a little bit crazy.

A/N: finished that in a rush lol. Still not quite sure what possessed me to call her Cecile of all things. I think I've fixed all the errors, and am training myself to recognise when I'm spelling Gryffindor wrong. Thanks to all my lovely reviewers (who, for the most, were polite in pointing out my idiocy) and I shall go back to writing. Mostly coursework, actually, but I'm bound to blow it off for FF at some point :)


	5. Understanding Min

I just sat down and wrote this all in one go, whilst half reading the master and margarita and attempting to fix up the others chapters, so forgive me if I've gone off on any major tangents/written things which just don't make sense. All in all, this is a pretty quick update for me lol.

Disclaimer: nope, still not mine. Never has been, never will be – but isn't it fun to pretend?

Chapter five: Understanding Min

Tom sat perfectly still on his bed, waiting in the dark. Patience was a quality rarely found in boys his age, but these days Tom had come to realise just how much he needed it. He could have cracked years ago, for example, and asked the librarian outright for every book vaguely connected to Salazar Slytherin, but he'd resisted the urge. He had the ability to see the trouble his actions could create later on, and knew what to avoid.

And he had just disregarded all this in order to gain a petty revenge for Cecile's throwaway insult. It wasn't his fault, he'd rationalised. For some reason, it really got to him if people called him crazy. He could joke about it at school – after all, a teenager who spent every free moment buried in obscure library books could never be considered by his fellows to be totally sane – but when it was said seriously, something inside him seemed to snap.

It was the same kind of "snap" he'd felt watching the boys torture the snake. They hadn't really known what they were doing to her – he shouldn't have cared at all. One less snake in the world should have been fine with him. But it wasn't; he had cared, and he'd risked exposing himself as a Parselmouth; something he had been extremely careful about throughout his school career. After all, when the chamber was opened – and Tom was adamant it would be – it wouldn't do for Min McGonagall to suddenly blurt out that one of the Slytherin boys had a very interesting talent when it came to snakes.

So here he was, cross-legged on the bed, as pale and still as marble, with the face of an angel and the heart and mind of something rather less. He was waiting for the screams. A good shriek, at the very least. Cecile didn't seem like the hysterical type, but he sincerely hoped he was mistaken.

He felt a little guilty about taking the snake carcass – if such a lean, insubstantial thing qualified as a carcass – and slipping it into Cecile's bed, but his feelings about her death…confused would be putting it mildly.

Nearly midnight…Rosa really was quite lax when it came to parenting. All good orphans were early to bed and early to rise. Tom didn't consider himself a good orphan. True, he retired and rose with little real protest, but after a good run of dream-laced nights the matrons would draw lots to see who had to wake his dormitory come morning. Of course, that had been before Hardy had taken over. She had the good sense to get the other children to wake him.

He hadn't thought about the orphanage for days. Or Hogwarts. He'd barely thought about Slytherin – he felt almost guilty, like a neglectful parent turning too late to forgotten children. Tom smiled gently at the irony of his own imagery, and anyone who had seen the dreadful mouthful would have gone scurrying as fast as they could in the other direction. He ought to do something about the last one; maybe follow his ritual of frustration over the useless library texts. Sighing, he leant over the bed and selected a tome at random. Maybe…

A keening scream tore its way through the upstairs hallway, settling in Tom's eardrums. With the kind of grin that would have even the most down to earth and sensible of people picturing him with fangs, Tom climbed under the duvet and focussed his attention on not laughing. Apparently he wasn't the only one having trouble: a barely stifled giggle came echoing into his room, cut short by a frenzied cry.

'Do you think this is funny, Minerva? Do you think this is bloody _funny_!'

'I didn't mean –'

'There's something in my bed!'

'I know,' came Min's calm reply. 'It's dead.'

'_What?_'

'Very dead, in fact. Has been for quite a while. Being headless can do that to you.'

'_Shut up_, Min,' Cecile moaned, and Tom was delighted to hear a hint of hysteria in her voice. Min, in her natural dry humour, couldn't have reacted better.

'What is it?' he heard Grace asking, her usually distinctly energetic tones slurred by sleep. 'Eugh, what is it?'

'It _was_ a snake.'

'Brilliant,' whispered an impressed-sounding, male voice. Tom barely had time to place it to Oliver before Cecile's mind made the connection.

'That – _RIDD–'_

But she was cut off by a chorus of frantic hushes. Tom had to bite his lip to stop himself from laughing.

'What?' Cecile hissed.

Tom could almost picture the firm but friendly look on Min's face. The look that said, "I'm going to tell you to do something, and you _are_ going to do it". The look that had earned her a pathetic position of power as a Hogwarts prefect.

'Your mother is still, remarkable as it seems, asleep –'

'She could sleep through a bloody air raid dosed up on those nerve pills or whatever she says they are.'

'We don't have to bring her into this.'

Tom was never sure how Min convinced Cecile to stay put and lower her voice, but he was grateful. He was even more grateful for what happened next:

'Fine,' Cecile hissed. 'I'll just wake Riddle up and have a nice, _quiet_ talk with him.'

'You mustn't!'

_Good boy, Oliver. _It had to be Oliver. No one else in the house could react with such utter terror to the mere thought of waking him. As soon as Tom discovered his habit of rude awakenings he'd started building his reputation, but he had to admit Oliver's attitude had always been on the extreme. Something must have happened to him. Tom neither knew nor cared what.

'Let me past, brat!'

'You mustn't! Min, tell 'er!'

'Listen,' said Min, once again assuming her prefect voice. 'It's late, we're tired and we've all had a bit of a scare. We'll deal with this in the morning – the morning, Cecile. You take my bed – Oliver, go back downstairs. I'll come with you, I need get some clean linen.'

'Why should I take orders from you?' Cecile snapped, though Tom could tell from her tone she was already defeated.

'Because I'm helping you. Now get some sleep.'

Gradually, silence fell over the house. Tom could hear Min shuffling around on the landing in the search of sheets, but with the scores of children sleeping downstairs it was to be in vain. There was someone else too – probably Rosa, woken too late, moving blindly through the corridors. Tom half wished there would be an air raid, wished he could see her not quite make it out in time. My, he was getting vindictive. All that effort, just to hear a genuine scream.

_So petty._ But God, it was fun.

Tom had almost drifted into sleep. He had certainly moved into daydreams. In the back of his mind, the vague shape of a snake tore off his face too feed her children. It was so hopelessly unreal he barely noticed. Absently, he brushed her away, but she carried on – she'd have his whole head if he wasn't careful. He didn't care; it seemed fair, somehow. Besides, he knew he was still half awake. If he hadn't been, then how could he have heard the door creak open, a pair of bare feet padding their way across the threshold. To heavy for the insubstantial Cecile, too light for a boy. Who was up? Rosa, or –

'Why did you do that?'

'Hypocrite,' Tom muttered, peering at the dressing gown clad Gryffindor through the darkness. 'Min, you do realise you're in my room in the middle of the night?'

'Yes,' Min replied curtly, gently picking up the forgotten book from the end of his bed. 'But you weren't asleep.'

Tom sat up. 'Would you have woken me if I was?'

'I knew you'd be listening. What on earth did you do to that Oliver boy?'

'I honestly can't remember. I don't make a habit of traumatising people,' he added, unsure for a second whether he was lying or not. He didn't to it _intentionally_. Usually. 'And what makes you so sure I was awake?'

'Easy. You were actually being quiet. I've never known someone to make more noise when they were sleeping than when they're awake.'

'Did you want something, Min?'

'I wanted to know why you did it,' said Min quietly, letting Tom take the book from her and lie it with the others under his bed.

'I didn't do anything. But whoever did probably had good enough reasons.'

'I didn't mean that. It's obvious Cecile upset you, you were just getting revenge. I wanted to know why you just pretending to be angry about the snake? Was it so they wouldn't think it was you?'

Tom couldn't stop the smile, though he was slightly annoyed that Min considered his actions "obvious". He honestly couldn't imagine anyone in the house suspecting anyone but him. Except perhaps Grace.

Min wasn't smiling – she seemed determined to drive her point home. 'Why get that upset about it, and then do something like that?'

'Why are you so interested?' he asked lightly, deliberately catching her eye. It was a look that any other girl would have held wordlessly, but Min didn't even seem to notice. Tom supposed it was a Gryffindor thing.

'Because people talk about you, Tom. Not just here – though they're doing their fair share of gossiping today – at Hogwarts.'

Tom laughed. He didn't find the comment funny in the least; he was actually annoyed. But it was high time he worked Min McGonagall out and found out how he could manipulate her. 'I know. Brilliant, introverted and obnoxious. Not exactly complimentary, but I think I can stand it.'

He waited for a reaction, but Min gave him none. If anything, she seemed to be waiting for a reaction from _him_. Then it hit him – Min was doing exactly the same thing as he was. Maybe not aiming for the same end, but there she was, thinking she could figure out how Tom Riddle's mind worked. How presumptuous. He ought to teach her lesson. But then again, if Min was going to make it her mission to understand her, it was important she got the wrong impression.

'I know you're afraid of snakes,' Min went on, with the air of someone making a list. 'Don't look so surprised, Oliver told me – and then went as white as a sheet and hasn't spoken to me since. Then I remembered the time a couple of girls in your year were practically drunk with their own petty concern because you'd come over rather strange in a boggart lesson. Sorry,' she added, misinterpreting Tom's furious glare. 'But they were making so much noise, we had to pack them off to their dorms – anyway, apparently that was a snake.'

Quickly bottling up mixed anger and humiliation, Tom forced himself to examine Min's little speech more closely. Some things were obvious – she'd wanted to talk to him alone, and couldn't wait till morning, so she was definitely curious. She wanted to know his connection with snakes. That was bad. Oliver had certainly written himself out of his good books.

But there were other things. The fact Min had been so infuriated by a gang of girls ruining the perfect peace of the Gryffindor common room – that now, out of bed in what at school would be forbidden hours, made her so uncomfortable. _You like things done the right way, don't you Min? But I like them done _my_ way. I've got you now, and I got there first. Bloody Gryffindors._

'Maybe the person who did it,' he said slowly, catching Min's eyes again, 'was just trying to make a point. Apart from the undeniable fact Cecile needs taking down more than just a peg or two – maybe they just wanted to say that even if something is considered vermin, even if you're going to kill it, you don't keep it as a pet, or torture it, and then try to pretend that you're a good person.'

Tom almost smiled, but it would have ruined the effect. He often surprised himself with the things he came up with when his oratorical skills ran away with him. Min certainly seemed to be impressed, yet she was trying to hide it behind sternness.

'If you're making a point, then why won't you admit it was you?'

Tom made a point of yawning. 'Maybe they went about it the wrong way, and plan to own up and accept punishment in the morning.'

'All right, I can take a hint.' Min tiptoed over to the door, looking back only once. 'Hopefully Cecile will have calmed down a bit. And maybe even have learnt her lesson. Goodnight Tom.'

Tom didn't bother replying. He fell back hard against the pillows, pulling the sheets over his head to hide from the moonlit, accusing eyes of Robert Grey. He lay there for some time, curled in cheap linen, until he allowed himself to think again.

He hadn't been scared of the snake, Tom realised finally; it had been no threat to him. He was actually quite pleased about that. It was about time he started getting over the ridiculous phobia. The reason he was lying awake now…it was Min's fault. Why had he really done it? Revenge, he'd told himself. And why had he done _that_? Simply theatrics?

He didn't understand his actions anymore than she did. He'd been furious that those boys – the filthy little muggles – had treated the snake like that, but what he'd done to the body was even worse. There had been no respect whatsoever. Hopefully Min hadn't noticed. Maybe he thought he was better than them. Certainly better than the snake.

Annoyed, Tom tried to bring his drowsy, half-formed musings under control, but not before one final, indignant thought forced its way through:

_And what's so dreadful about that? It isn't even – it's just a bloody snake,_ he told himself firmly, throwing himself into bed and drifting into a nightmare-less, if not dreamless sleep.


	6. Grace

Disclaimer: The concept of Harry Potter is not mine. One day, I'll write my own book, and laugh when I see fangirls making up slash or writing stuff like this. I could even post my own, just so I could say it belonged to me. But this doesn't. So whatever. I don't think anyone reads the disclaimers anyway…o, and I don't own those few lines of lullaby either.

Chapter six: Grace

A whole day had passed since Min had convinced Cecile and Rosa that Tom had had nothing to do with the snake. Tom had managed to slip away without punishment and hadn't stopped smirking all day. None of this worried Grace. If anything, she was glad. Tom didn't deserve to be punished – if Cecile was mean to him, he should get his own back. So should she, when she'd thought of a good way how. Nothing came to mind. She wasn't as clever as Tom – she'd never met anyone as clever as him.

Grace shuffled through the darkened halls in too large slippers, thinking hard. With twin, slightly ruffled blonde plaits and a pink cotton nightdress, she was the epitome of the seven-year-old girl. It should have gone without saying that her thoughts were in keeping with her appearance, but something serious was attempting to force its way into her mind. It had been for a while now. For the moment, however, she ignored it, relishing the idea of being up so late. She jumped from shadow to shadow, avoiding the moonlight that fell in perfect squares through windows that had never been blacked out.

At home, things were quite different. No moon or sun could squeeze shafts through their boarded windows. Things weren't bad, exactly. They had enough to make ends meet, even missing a father and two brothers – Grace's mother made just enough doing laundry, and was teaching Grace to sew. Make do and mend, as the posters said. They'd made do with things as they were, and now Mrs Mervall was trying to mend as well; she'd sent Grace off to this mouldy old house, in the hope of giving her somewhere stable to stay. Grace knew she ought to be grateful, but the feeling wouldn't come. How could it, when no one really liked her? After all, Oliver only listened because he had no one else to talk to. To Grace he was her best friend; to him she was little more than a rather irritating distraction.

Unfortunately the seven-year-old mind had ground to a halt a few lines earlier, distracted by the memory of her mother and the time she'd first managed to embroider her name on the edge of a handkerchief. "_Grase Merval_". There was the vague concept of being disliked, but it was quickly forced away. Min liked her too. Min always looked after her. The only problem was, Grace didn't really like Min. Or Oliver. Or any of the children who thought she was sweet and took it upon themselves to baby her.

She wanted Tom and Cecile to like her. And Mrs Grey. They were in charge; they were safe. They could get away with _anything_, and Grace was impressed. Only Oliver didn't hold to this opinion.

'_Gracie, sweetheart, what are you doing?'_

_Grace had blushed spectacularly, her whole face glowing pink. She must have looked odd, cold water sloshing out the open teapot as she hurried up the stairs. She didn't want to wait long. The pictures were staring at her, dozens of accusatory eyes from faces that ranged from the cradle to late adolescence. All black haired and, as far as she could tell from the black and white portrait, hazel eyed. All pale. All sullen. All Tom. _

'_Mrs Grey said if Tom doesn't get up and stop making that racket he'll be out on his ear, manners be damned,' Grace recited proudly, ignoring the half-shocked, half-amused look Oliver gave her. 'And she says if I don't hurry up and wake him the devil can have us both. So I am,' she added, waving the teapot and snatching it back to her chest as water splattered the wall._

'_No you ain't.'_

'_Pardon?'_

'_Bloody 'ell Gracie, you don't 'ave a clue, do you? 'E'll wake up sooner or later.'_

'_Not in time,' said Grace, Rosa's order still ringing fresh in her mind. 'And I don't think I really want to go to the devil.'_

'_Dunno why you're going in there then,' Oliver muttered darkly._

'_What's that?'_

'_Nothing that'd interest you, Gracie.'_

_Once again water splashed, and Rosa's wallpaper came off worse. 'That's not fair! I do know things, you know! I can read and – and sort of write – and it's more than you can do!' _

'_Gracie –'_

'_I notice things too!' Grace snapped, the last of the water pooling on the carpet as the teapot hit the ground. 'I'm not stupid! I know he's mean, and odd and I know Mrs Grey's got photos of him everywhere! I'm not stupid – I know enough to stay home!'_

_Grace wasn't sure why she'd got so upset over so small a thing; she only knew that a second later she had flung her arms around Oliver's waist and sobbed as the petrified boy returned an awkward hug. _

'_You'll won't be here long Gracie,' said Oliver quietly. 'You'll be back with your mam before you know it.' Gently he prised the girl away from him, bending down to meet her eyes. 'I'll talk to you proper now, if it 'elps,' he added, his young face suddenly serious. ''Cause it's important that you're careful round 'im. No more messing about with teapots, all right? Remember, it's bad enough when 'e knows what 'e's doing to you. Come on, Miss Mervall,' he added, almost as an afterthought. 'I'll tell you a story.'_

_That had been enough to sway Grace's easily distracted mind. It always was; when Cecile was cruel, or Tom ignored her, or when Min's attentions reminded her too much of her own mother – Oliver was there, with a joke so hopelessly unfunny that they'd laugh themselves silly, or his fantastic story about the prince who didn't know he was a prince, forced to fight an evil sorcerer for a title and power he didn't know he had, and a family he'd long forgotten. Maybe Oliver wasn't so bad. Tom couldn't tell stories. Cecile wouldn't even try. If Mrs Grey ever tried to crack a joke the effort would probably give her a heart attack. Oliver could always make her smile – he'd cheered her up enormously that very morning, when her mother's promised letter hadn't arrived. _

_There was that thought again. Grace quickened her jumping game, skirting through the shadows – but now the moonlight reminded her of home. Her mummy. Why hadn't she written?_

_There was a reason. A perfectly likely reason. But it was something no seven-year-old should ever have to think about._

_Grace paused, balancing like a ballerina in a bright patch of moonlight. She wanted to talk to Oliver, but he was in the living room, past the staircase of creepy pictures. She didn't want to go that way, not in the dark. Min would hug her and tell her not to worry, and remind her even more of her own mother. Cecile would snap. Tom would ignore her, as usual._

'_A story,' Grace whispered, forcing the memory of her mothers face out of her mind. 'A story.' She skipped into a shadow, spinning so her plaits spun around her face, strays wisps of blonde floating gently into place. 'Once upon a time, a long time away, when there were no bombs and no wars, and children had sweets and bacon and eggs whenever they wanted…' she bit her lip, but kept moving, as if caught up in a strange ritual of a dance. If you stay in the shadows, said a nasty little voice in her head, mummy will be all right. So will daddy, and Philip, and Jack. 'A big family of servants lived in the castle with the prince who didn't know he was a prince, all together.' Hop, skip, and jump in the shadows. 'And they were very happy, because even though the prince didn't know he was a prince, and even though the family wasn't really a family, they were good enough and that was enough to be happy –'_

_With a sudden spin and flourish, Grace staggered, and was instantly bathed in moonlight. Her eyes blurred with tired tears, and when she whispered again, her voice was trembling. 'I need a better story.'_

_And the servant girl ignored the warnings of her servant brother, and left the forgetful prince to see the evil sorcerer._

'_He'll ignore me,' Grace whispered, unsure of whom she was talking to. Maybe the moonlight. Maybe her mummy._

_I bet he tells good stories though. He has to, with all those books he reads._

_Grace turned, and found herself already in front of Tom's door. _

_Besides, who else is there? He's got to talk to you._

_Grace nodded, as if to reassure herself, and slipped inside._

'Tom. _Tom_.'

Tom shifted in his sleep, unwittingly breathing in the scent of the musty sheets as they fell across his face. He didn't hear anyone calling him; he was miles away, walking through the grounds at Hogwarts. There was nothing but silence there – nothing but the weird, wonderful dream of too-bright sunshine and verdant grass. Nothing but the glassy waters of the great lake. And everything was so blissfully _quiet._

'Tom! Aren't you awake? Tom, wake up.'

Somehow, thoughts stirred into his numb, silent mind – probably prompted by the noise beside his bed. Then again, they could hardly be classed as thoughts. They were echoes of the night before, empty, mixed with the sounds around him. _It's just a snake, Tom. What's so dreadful? You aren't even awake – what's so dreadful about a bloody snake?_

It was a challenge to his subconscious, and his subconscious gleefully accepted.

A ripple ran across the lake, disturbing the still waters. Somewhere behind him, Tom could hear the unmistakable sound of something small but heavy dragging itself across dry grass.

He had the sense to run.

Grace groaned, but very quietly. Why did everyone ignore her? Wasn't she nice to them? Didn't she act as everyone expected her to? Ever since the fighting had begun, she'd been ignored. Her brothers and father were gone. Her mother had thrown herself into factory work, determined to do what she could. And now a skinny, strange, parentless boy was treating her as if she wasn't even there. Though he was asleep, nothing visible save a pale forehead under a mass of blankets. But Grace was certain his reaction would have been the same even if he'd been awake.

'Tom,' she repeated, a little louder than before. The idea of going to the youth for comfort was quickly losing its appeal. Maybe Min wouldn't be so bad. At least there was no chance she'd get angry and throw her out. 'Wake up. Please. Tell me something. Tell me a story. Tell me anything,' Grace added quietly, kneeling down by the bed, unconsciously adopting the position her mother had set her in every evening for prayers. The lullaby floated out of her memory, sung softly in her mother's hard but soothing voice. _Little Boy kneels at the foot of the bed, droops on his little hands little gold head: hush; hush, whisper who dares –_

Tom turned sharply in his sleep, muttering something unintelligible under his breath. Forcing her mother from her head Grace climbed quietly to her feet with a mind to shake the boy awake. If she hadn't been half-asleep, or desperate for attention and reassurance, she might have thought it a bad idea. But she was tired, and she was upset. And without a moment's thought, she seized the bare shoulder that protruded from the sheet. A second later Tom was sitting bolt upright, holding his hand tightly over her mouth to stifle the pained cry that threatened to awaken Min and Cecile at the very least.

'It's all right,' Tom whispered heavily, making sure he looked the child straight in the eyes. 'You're fine. Let me have a look at your hands.'

Grace shook her head, shrinking away. Tom sighed. Bloody child. What was she doing up here anyway? 'Come on, Grace. There we are,' he added soothingly as the child gingerly showed her palms. Both shone scarlet and raw, but neither was particularly bad. More importantly, they could have made by anything.

'They hurt,' Grace squeaked, eyes already flooded with tears. Tom ignored her.

'Listen,' Tom began slowly, making sure she heard every word. He was still so tired; he couldn't even remember his dream – though he could easily guess the main subject. 'This is important. You were playing downstairs with the iron, at night because you know you're not allowed to touch it. You burnt your hands and decided to come up and get me to help.'

'No –'

'Yes, Grace. It's important.'

Grace scowled, fiercely wiping away the tears on her face before the pain in her hands prompted a fresh wave. 'It still hurts.'

'Then go and get Min to sort you out.'

'I only wanted –'

'Grace. It's three o' clock in the morning. In four hours, Rosa will send someone in to get me out of bed. _That_,' he added, nodding towards Grace's hands, 'may be a wonderful little trick but it exhausts me every time it happens. Go back to bed, and let me do the same.'

'You admit it was you. Why do I have to say about the iron and every –'

'Go back to bed.'

Grace's face was set, her eyes determined despite the liquid that still made the brown glisten in even in the darkness. 'I'll tell Mrs Grey.'

'You do that.'

'And Oliver.'

'He'll won't listen to you.'

'And Min.'

Tom fell silent; ignoring the victory it gave Grace. It wasn't the end all if Min found out – she'd probably already heard enough half-muttered rumours from Oliver – but the fact still remained that he'd hurt Grace. He'd only just gained Min's trust; a Gryffindor prefect, tipped to be head girl? This was an opportunity Tom couldn't afford to lose. Not over something as pointless as Grace.

'What do you want?'

Grace paused, the delicate frown-lines across the bridge of her nose giving the only outward sign of how hard her mind was working. 'Not a lot,' she said finally. 'Just a better story.'

'Fine. I'll see you in the morning.'

'Not then, _now_.'

'Grace –'

'I'll tell Min you hurt me.'

Tom drew a deep, calming breath, resisting the urge to stupefy the child and leave her that way till morning. It was just as well; he couldn't seem to get the hex quite right. His victims never responded to the counter-hex, simply lying unconscious for hours. Unsurprisingly, a lack of willing partners meant he'd had little recent practice.

Grace was flexing her fingers gently, no sign of pain on her face. She wasn't that badly hurt. Barely burnt at all. Scheming little…_seven-year-old_, Tom reminded himself firmly. Just a child. _So tell her a story._

'Will there be a prince? And a sorcerer?'

'Maybe.'

'And a castle and a monster?'

'Almost definitely. Oh, Grace,' Tom added, a smirk pulling at his lips. 'Are you scared of snakes?' Grace nodded, and the smirked stretched into a smile. 'All right. Are you sitting comfortably? Then I'll begin.'

A/N: I know it's strange, and I know it's random, but so is Grace. Her short attention span is part of her character, and I think jumping from thought to thought represents that. Look at me, coming over all analytical. Sorry this is taking ages to get out – AS-levels are looming _very_ close on the horizon, and I've decided to make a fairly major change to the plot, which mean I can take a closer look at my OC's characters, and give Min a bigger role. I also think I've dropped myself in a great big bear-trap of a plothole. But no worries. I can fix it. Go on, give me a review

p.s. does anyone recognise that poem/song? The tune just floated into my head before I realised what I was writing. Anyway it's called 'Vespers' by A.A. Milne, the fabulous creator of Winnie the Pooh – it's basically the sweetest little lullaby you ever heard.


	7. Rosa

Disclaimer: o we all know how this goes. I don't own Harry Potter. I don't own Tom Riddle. I am a fangirl who simply wondered what would happen if Tom got dragged up North to stay with a muggle family. If you wonder the same, then go ahead and carry on reading

Chapter seven: Rosa

Rosa shuffled unsteadily down the hallway, eyes stilled blurred with sleep and half-forgotten dreams. She was not a morning person. She never had been, and with the recent prescription of sleeping pills she'd found herself uniformly waking up with a splitting headache. But since the day her eldest was born, Rosa had forced herself out of bed to make sure her children were up and dressed by a sensible hour. It showed dedication. And no one could accuse Rosa Grey of not being a dedicated mother. Every morning she was here. With children like hers, she needed to be. Cecile was up early enough but Robert would lie in for hour if she let him.

Now slightly more awake, Rosa realised she could her a voice coming from Robert's room. It didn't sound like him. It was a calm, strangely melodious voice brushed with a harsh London accent that the owner couldn't seem to shake.

'I'm done, Grace. I can't think of anything else.'

'But it was so clever,' a second, female voice squeaked. 'And so _creepy_,' she added, sounded utterly delighted. 'I shan't be able to sleep tonight – you'll have to tell me more stories!'

Tom didn't respond – all Rosa heard was Grace's light little laugh – and she took the opportunity to enter.

The room was a mess. Tom really was just like Robert; he dressed smartly, treating anything outside his room with meticulous care – but when it came to his own room…if she wasn't afraid of being accuse of bad taste, Rosa would have said it looked like a bomb had gone off. Clothes and papers were strewn everywhere, fat, flickering candles pooling wax onto a precarious pile of books. It seemed impossible that so much mess could have come from one small suitcase, but Rosa had no time to consider that. She found herself rather distracted by the small, pink child perched on the end of Tom's bed and the bandages that swathed her hands.

'I was playing with the iron,' Grace blurted out as soon as she caught Rosa looking. 'Tom was cheering me up with some stories.'

'How kind of him. Get back to your room,' Rosa added curtly, smirking as the girl scuttled out of sight. 'Tom I want you up and dressed with the hour and I want this room _spotless_. I will not be tolerating such a slovenly attitude when you are living in this house.'

'Madam, I can assure you now –'

Rosa wasn't paying attention; her eyes were on a large, expensive–looking book that had fallen out from under Tom's bed. It was a beautiful thing, with gilt-edged pages and gold scrolls on the spine. There was even a smooth disc of amber glittering in the cracked leather cover. No East End orphan could afford such a thing. He must have stolen it.

'Don't be silly,' said Rosa kindly, feeling a smile stretch its way across her mouth. 'You pop off to the girls' room and go back to sleep – I expect after a night like that you'll still be quite tired. I'll tidy up. Go on now,' she added as Tom frowned, opening his mouth to protest. 'Don't worry, I'll wake you up with something to eat in an hour or so, and I'll talk to Grace about leaving you alone.'

She barley waited until the door was closed before bending down to pull out the book. It wasn't the only one – there were half a dozen large, leather bound books, some titled, some nameless, all tucked neatly out of sight under Tom's bed. All were old and all looked valuable – one of the spines was set with a great, glowing green stone that could only be an emerald. No wonder Tom had tried to hide them. Now certain in her mind that the boy had stolen them, Rosa gently opened the first book.

The pages were yellow and brittle with age, but the ink looked almost wet, as if the words had been written only seconds ago. The text itself had to be ancient: most of it was Latin but there were many sections written in a strange, rune-like language that Rosa couldn't begin to understand.

Infuriated that an orphan was apparently better educated than her, she focussed on the pictures. There was a fine vignette of a young woman that appeared to have been drawn straight onto the page by its author. It was as clear and as detailed as a photograph, utterly perfect; so perfect, that seemed to come alive before her eyes. Rosa watched her sobbing, screaming as blood fell like beads of sweat from her pores, trickling down her face. The grotesquely intricate picture was ruined however, by a single word scrawled across the woman's face in large, green letters: MESSY.

Slightly nauseated, Rosa moved onto the next book, this time in old English, giving a detailed history of an old Scottish family called the Slytherins and their sordid ideas on race. One word kept coming up, leaping off the page as if it was written in a different colour. Magic.

The next few books were the same, the word magic appearing on every page (or magik, depending on the age of the book). Each one was teeming with horrific spells and illustrations to match.

Rosa gently picked up the last bejewelled book with trembling hands, surprised at how light it was. The emeralds on the cover winked at her, daring her to enter. When she did she was surprised to see it had been hollowed out: inside lay two small bottles of brightly coloured liquid, a velvet pouch of fat gold coins, several sheets of notes and a long, thin, well polished stick.

Rosa could make neither heads nor tails of the notes, nor could she identify the coins, but pocketed the money and picked up the pile of book with a mind to lock them up where they couldn't affect an impressionable young boy.

She nearly dropped them when she found Tom standing fully dressed in the corridor.

'Those aren't yours!' he hissed, eyes flashing dangerously. It was amazing really, thought Rosa as she clung to the pile of books. One second he'd be standing there, the spitting image of her son, and the next you'd be closer in comparing the pale, gaunt young man to a snake. But as terrifying as the transition was, Rosa knew she had the upper hand. _You'll do anything for these, won't you child? You want them back that badly. You'd even stay here, with Cecile and I, if it came to it._

'Maybe. But they aren't yours, either. So I'll be keeping them.'

Once again, the brown eyes were practically glowing with anger. And they did glow, odd, reddish light dancing across them like the sunrise glancing off the broken photo frames. He really was a handsome boy. And so much like Robert, bar a few personality flaws. But that could be remedied. She could have her son back at last.

'What are you going to do with them?'

'This will be your punishment,' said Rosa, deciding on the spot, 'for scaring Cecile – wide eyes will get you nowhere, Tom, I know you did it. From what I've seen of you so far, forcing you to remain indoors won't have much of an impact. Instead I want you to remain in the company of your fellows, and I want to see you sending a lot more time outdoors. Oh, and of course I'll be getting rid of this little lot.'

'Just give me one,' said Tom, desperation merging with the anger in his tones. He seemed to being forcing himself to calm down, attempting to dress himself in the cool, clever façade she'd seen up till now. 'The one with –'

'The one with the jewels? No. You're too old for fairytales Tom, especially ones as depraved as these. Some of those drawings were disgusting! I can see where you get your imagination from, with your head full of gothic horror stories.'

Apparently that was one step too far. For split second Tom stood frozen, the sunlight catching crimson in his eyes – then he reared up like a snake and hit the older woman hard around the face. 'You read them! If you knew what was – you don't even deserve to _touch them_ –'

Tom was cut off abruptly as Rosa backhanded him: he moved quickly forward but she was faster, hitting him again, harder. He stumbled back into the wall – that was why the glass in the photographs behind him cracked, Rosa told herself calmly before addressing the boy.

'That's _enough_! I am not getting into a fistfight with a common little brat like you. There's no more to say on the matter. I know what you want Tom,' she added coolly, watching with detached amusement as the boy nursed his jaw, shaking not with fear but with anger. 'But I won't send you away. It's going to take more than a slap and a dead snake to make me do that.'

'I'm sure I can think of something.'

'Oh, I'm sure you could. But I wouldn't try it if I were you.' Rosa pulled herself up to her full, rather considerable height. 'I didn't think it was possible a child to be overindulged in an orphanage, but you're obviously not used to people hitting you back.' She sighed with convincing regret, only her self-satisfied smile giving her away. 'If I catch you up to anything else, or if you lay another finger on me, or anyone else, I'll throw those books of yours in the fireplace. And I'll toss in your little magic wand as well – my word is final, Tom,' she added firmly, correctly interpreting the boy's sudden movement towards the books. 'We have a whole library in this house – I suggest you find something more suitable to read.'


	8. Error in Judgement

Disclaimer: This is getting veeery repetitive. Min isn't mine. Tom isn't mine. Basically anything you even _vaguely_ recognise was borrowed.

Chapter eight: Error in Judgement

_You're going to have to kill her_, thought Tom dully, tearing up grass from his seat in the shade of a towering apple tree. Normally the other children would have been all around, picking up late blossom and sour early apples, but Oliver had done his job well and steered them clear. It was obvious to the orphan at least, that Tom was in a foul mood: he'd come down on time, a spectacular bruise on his jaw and hadn't even retaliated after coming down for breakfast and finding Cecile leafing through one of his books – unless you counted the fire suddenly sparking and nearly setting the poor girl alight. Min had shot him extremely dirty look, but she couldn't prove anything. It _could_ have just been a coincidence. Besides, he'd caught her smiling and rolling her eyes as Cecile fussed about coupons and expensive foreign cotton.

_Actually, it would probably be better just to kill them both._ The idea of slaughtering the remnants of the Grey family was certainly an appealing one – in all honesty, it was the only thing that had got him through the past two hours at the village park. Honestly, what were the children doing? Surely a rickety roundabout and swings too rusty even to melted for gun metal couldn't be that much fun. Even Min seemed to be doing better than him, chatting happily to Cecile. _Well, threaten to burn her wand, _thought Tom darkly,_ see if she's still perky then._

Unfortunately he was very aware that any homicidal thoughts were strictly limited to fantasy, or he'd be saying goodbye to an education at Hogwarts or a life out of prison. No, what was annoying him now was that he couldn't think of anything better. Maybe not better – he just needed something he could actually _do_. He also needed to calm down a bit first: at the moment he was having fun with the idea of burning the whole house down.

_Bloody Grey. Bloody Cecile. Bloody war._ September seemed years away, but without his books Tom was almost glad. He couldn't afford to waste time like this. Not when he was so close.

Though that wasn't strictly true. He was honestly no closer to discovering the location of the chamber than he had been last summer. He knew most of his research notes off by heart – and that worried him. Now he had the time to sit back and think about it that actually worried him. He was considering murdering someone over books. If he ever managed to find the monster, he was considering murdering a lot of people for no good reason.

_Yes, a good reason. To preserve a way of life. To save them the trouble of destroying each other with petty, messy war. To save the people who deserve to be saved._

A good reason. Only those weren't his words – they were copied from a book. Everything he knew, everything he based the obsession on, had come from a book. Except his dreams. And the slowly increasing sense that _something_ was watching him.

Of course Tom couldn't resist glancing over his shoulder into the thicket behind him, but there was nothing there. So he was getting paranoid. Wonderful. Bitterly he seized another handful of grass, the brittle leaves crackling beneath his fingers as he tore them up. A few feet away Min was playing babysitter, making sure Oliver and Grace didn't fall. Why did he have to prove himself, and she didn't?

_You can't give up now. Not because some deluded slut decided to pawn your books._

Tom sighed, scattering the grass like ashes to the breeze, and watching them sink listlessly to the ground in the still summer air. It had been a long time since he'd called anyone a slut, even in his head. It had been a long time since he'd hit anyone, or let them hit him back like that. He'd changed a lot since he came to Hogwarts. He thought his actions through. He was determined to keeping wearing a mask of calm politeness no matter how many times it cracked. And he'd thought it was better that way. After all, he couldn't keep silently presiding over an orphanage for the rest of his life.

Sometimes it felt like there were two of him. One for Hogwarts, one for the orphanage. One for each half of his hybrid blood.

_You can't give up. Slytherin –_

Slytherin. And what was it based on? A few choice words from a _hat_. A hat, telling him he was more important than Tom had ever suspected. Yes, he was a parselmouth, yes, he'd dreamt frequently of the founding and those snakes – yes, he was obsessed with the chamber but there was no real proof. He wasn't even a pureblood; he'd found that much out from the hat. All the rest had come after his sorting. Apart from the snakes in his dreams. They had always been there, before he even knew what the creatures were.

_You can't give up. That's all there is to it. Find the chamber, find the monster, and the dreams stop._

Now those were his thoughts. Those were his beliefs, and he clung to them desperately.

Someone was standing in front of him. Tom hesitated for a second, not wanting look up and see nothing, but there was a shadow that didn't match the intricate patch of shade cast by the tree. Stretched impossibly tall by the evening sun, with twin plaits and a neat skirt and blouse.

'Keep that up and there won't be any grass left.'

Tom glanced up and immediately felt his stomach clench at the look of pity on Min's face as she sat down beside him. What have you come to berate me about this time?'

'Your face is bruised.'

'I did notice, yes.'

'What happened?'

'I fell out of bed,' said Tom calmly, crushing a few unfortunate blades of grass between his fingertips. 'I hit the floor, and the floor won.'

'And then she took your books. Is that why you're in such a foul mood? Fouler than usual, I mean. Even Gracie hasn't dared go near you.' Tom didn't answer, willing the girl to go away. _So you can do what, exactly? Go back to brooding because you've finally found something in life that genuinely challenges you?_

'Anyway,' Min went on hurriedly, a nervousness in her demeanour that had nothing to do with the murderous look Tom was giving her. 'Normally I wouldn't argue someone's punishment – and you did say you'd take whatever she gave you for that snake. But I know how much they mean to you so – here –'

Tom felt a scrap of parchment pushed gently into his hand with his wand, and laughed softly. He didn't need to look at it. He recognised the weight of the linen heavy paper. 'Well. Look at you, little miss prefect. What happened to the ancient Gryffindor Slytherin rivalry?'

He expected Min to blush, but she smiled and raised her eyebrows. 'I wasn't about to let her destroy your wand. Besides, I'm interested. I took transfiguration instead of ancient runes and regretted it ever since; you've made a few basic errors in the translation. I also can't help but notice you're in dire need of a friend.'

'What do you mean, errors?'

Min shrugged, pointing at a carefullyinked glyph. 'You've translated it as enter, right?'

'I had reference to –'

'But it still doesn't make sense. Have you consider that these words; enter, take, even be – what if they're the infinitive? What if it's _to_ enter, _to_ take?'

Tom didn't answer. _Ask a snake to enter, listen to what it says. To take the right path is to be in the wrong place._

'Min, I swear you're wasted in Gryffindor.'

'It still doesn't make sense I'm afraid,' said Min. 'Obviously you can't ask a snake, but it might mean more to you that way.'

'Not how – _to_. It won't tell me, it'll let me straight – Christ Min, you're a genius.' Tom spun his wand gently in his hand, swinging the weighted wood swiftly between his fingers. It was the first time in month's he'd felt any other than frustration at the prospect of the task ahead of him. There were new options, logical ones. Hogwarts was brimming of potential entrances.

'Tom.'

Tom automatically looked at Min, but his mind was now completely caught up in the flood of ideas that had just engulfed it. He was running through his memories of the school, mentally listing which snake was where, working out how long it would take to visit them all without arousing to much suspicion – then it occurred to him that Min was waiting for a response. 'Yes?'

'Cecile said Rosa wants to adopt you.'

'Yes,' said Tom, paying absolutely no attention to Min's words. _The shield in the great hall will be tricky. There's always someone in there, even at night._

'Do you want her to? I don't actually know how much say you have in the matter, but there must be some kind of choice.'

_What about during lesson time? House elves can be persuaded to keep their mouths shut. But they're loyal little buggers. _

'I think Cecile want to talk to you about it.'

_Quidditch match. Perfect. No teachers, and the elves will be busy with the common rooms._

'I mean, Rosa did hit you.'

'I hit her first,' Tom muttered without thinking, his mind ready to leap to the next challenge.

'What?'

'Maybe I'll talk to Cecile now,' said Tom casually, stowing the wand in his pocket and climbing to his feet. 'She does seem a bit worried about the whole thing.'

'You hit Rosa?'

'And under my new slavery schedule I owe Grace one shockingly unsuitable horror story.'

'Just because she threatened to take you wand? Tom –'

_Little miss prefect,_ thought Tom, smirking as Min followed him out of the shadow of the tree and across the playground. _So close, but still a Gryffindor underneath. I'll make something of you yet Min McGonagall. I'd have never got this far without you._

A/N: Any one who was paying attention could see the change I had to make lol. Anyway, I loved this idea. I'm even working on a new piece at the moment where McGonagall's basically blaming herself for the whole war. Yeah that's it. I should be quite quick on the updates now btw, because I've pretty much got everything written up nicely. You know the deal – the more reviews I get, the quicker I'll load them up

Also, to silvertinprincess because she's got a good question there – I can seriously see Tom and Min ignoring each other completely once they get back to school. It's a completely different situation, and as the Gryffindor Slytherin thing probably borders on tribal warfare Min'll probably find some other lost cause to work on, and Tom won't complain. He doesn't seem the type to get attached. (And grace has actually grown on me now lol).


	9. Dulce et Decorum est

Disclaimer: aha, something new to put in. Whilst I don't own Harry potter or any related offshoots, I can also moan about not having written the poem mentioned here. It belongs to Wilfred Owen.

Chapter nine: Dulce et Decorum est

With a quick glance over his shoulder Tom began sifting through the sheets of paper. He wasn't entirely sure what he was looking for, or whether he was looking for anything at all. He was desperately bored in the old house and more than a little unnerved by the photographs that hung on every wall – the face that was almost, but not quite, like his own. With one mystery on its way to being solved it was time to address another: the boy.

If Rosa was going to read his private property, he'd just have to do the same back. He'd failed to find any diaries, but these letters looked like a good bet. Hopefully she'd think these were more suitable than schoolbooks. Tom smirked, scanning a likely looking page. It wasn't a letter, or part of a journal or anything related to the son, but he didn't put it down. It was a poem, and for the half a minute he took to read it, it held his attention utterly.

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,

Knock kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through the sludge,

Till on haunting flares we turned our backs,

And towards our distant rest began to trudge.

Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,

But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame, all blind;

Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots

Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.

Gas! GAS! Quick boys – an ecstasy of fumbling

Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,

But someone still was yelling out and stumbling

And floud'ring like a man in fire or lime. –

Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,

As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams before my helpless sight

He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace

Behind the wagon that we flung him in,

And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,

His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin,

If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood

Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs

Bitten as the cud

Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, –

My friend, you would not tell with such high zest

To children ardent for some desperate glory,

The old lie: _Dulce et decorum est_

_Pro patria mori._

'Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori,' he whispered, slipping the page back into the pile. He had no trouble understanding the Latin; he was simply trying to distract himself from the fact he felt slightly sick. There were times when an over active imagination wasn't such an advantage.

'How sweet and good it is to die for your country.'

Tom quickly slid the poems back into their hideaway, turning to face Rosa. She was smiling, which probably meant they were going to ignore their last meeting completely. Well maybe _she_ was –

'I know what it means,' he said stiffly, a twinge of pain in his jaw effectively reminding him to mind his manners.

'I know you do – I've been having a proper look at your books; they're mostly Latin. You seem like a smart boy. Not smart enough to stay out of trouble though.'

'Did you write these?' asked Tom, calmly resisting the sudden urge to throttle the woman right there and then. With any luck there'd be something in the books that cursed her. He vaguely remembered a story of some ancient tome that instantly incinerated its reader if he or she was anything less than a half blood. But then it was probably just something he'd dreamt up.

Rosa was laughing her delicate, watery laugh, sweeping over and picking up the wad of poems. 'Of course not. A friend sent them to me – these are all written by a man called Wilfred Owen. He lived quite near here, perhaps you've heard of him?'

Curiosity sated, Tom merely shook his head. He wasn't in the mood to talk to Rosa – even now his petty plan.

'Are you going to go out and fight, Tom?' she asked lightly, flicking through the papers. 'When you're old enough, I mean.'

'No.'

Rosa raised a pale eyebrow. 'Oh? Don't let the poems put you off. This is a whole new war.'

'Are people dying?'

'Of course –'

'Then what's the difference?' Tom muttered. He tried to dodge pat Rosa, but she held him back with a surprisingly strong grip. Her other hand moved up sharply and Tom was mortified to find he flinched. Rosa, however, simply smiled, and ruffled his hair in what she clearly thought was a maternal gesture. Tom would have honestly preferred another slap.

'I mean it about the poems though. Some of them are quite ridiculous. They're written by a disillusioned minority. Interesting enough, but rather too graphic.'

'I suppose it was,' Tom agreed, though there was an edge to his words. 'Disgusting. Depraved, even.' Rosa gave no reaction in hearing her words thrown back at her, so Tom carried on. 'But still interesting. It shocks you into learning something. Just like my books do.'

'You are an odd thing Tom. You spend too much time in those dreadful stories and not enough being a child.'

Tom scowled, then forced his face into his sweet, fake smile. 'Let me be a child in my own way, madam. Give me back my toys.'

'You're not getting around me that way.' Rosa sighed, as if she was steeling herself to say something. 'You need proper guidance Tom, and I've been thinking – and Cecile agrees – we should be the ones to give it to you.'

Tom laughed. He couldn't help it – he'd seen it coming since Rosa had first laid eyes on him outside the house. She wasn't the first to try – far from it. Tom didn't consider himself vain, but he was very aware of the way he looked; even in his earliest memories he could recall strange, unknown couples smiling at him and telling him he was handsome little boy. But the adoptions never came through: some disaster would befall the couple before the papers were signed. He couldn't say he minded if Rosa was next in line, but he didn't want to be second to her own child. He didn't particularly like the orphanage, even if he practically ruled it, but he was no replacement.

'And Cecile agrees?'

'Of course. She may be angry with you at the moment, that's understandable –'

'She hates me. The feeling's perfectly mutual. I don't want a mother, or a sister. I've accepted that my parents are gone. I don't particularly care anymore. And I certainly don't want new ones.'

The silence that followed this statement stretched for nearly half a minute, before Tom thought of something to say. He'd been wondering what Min would do in a situation like this. Violence and anger didn't work. Reason might.

'If you don't mind me asking,' he said quietly, 'who is he?'

Rosa's own smile seemed to falter slightly. 'I don't know who you mean.'

'Yes you do. The one who looks like me.'

'You noticed.'

'It's hard not to. What was his name?'

'Robert,' said Rosa weakly, looking up at one of the many photographs.

'I don't want to be here,' said Tom calmly, vaguely impressed with himself for treating Rosa so kindly. The woman was nothing. Grace was more of a threat. Rosa Grey wasn't worth the fight. 'I don't need a family. And even if I did, I wouldn't want to be adopted simply because I look like someone who's died.'

Rosa's eyes flashed with anger as she took a step towards him. 'Robert isn't dead,' she spat.

'Cecile told me.'

'She doesn't know what she's talking about!'

'She seemed convinced –'

'So you think I'm lying, do you?'

'I think you're in denial,' said Tom, almost impressed by the woman's temper tantrum. Almost. Rosa might not have been worth the fight, but she was fast earning his pity. 'And slightly unbalanced.'

'You think _I'm_ mad? A little rich coming from a fourteen-year-old who still believes in magic! We've all heard you talking in your sleep, I've seen threatening the other children – you're lucky I haven't packed you off to an asylum!'

Tom froze at the last word, unbidden memories flowing into his mind. That was Knight's favourite threat – it had once been the only thing that would stop him from terrorising the other children. It was still one of his more frequent nightmares.

'I don't understand why they haven't done it already,' Rosa was saying, realising she'd found a chink in Tom's armour. 'But you do know how to charm people, don't you Tom? Why else would good, normal people listen to some twisted little brat – to someone's bastard? I've seen you with the children, innocent children hanging on every depraved word that come slithering past your lips!'

It was at that moment Tom realised there was something truly wrong with Rosa Grey. He only knew one person who could become this cruel and irrational at the drop of a hat and that was himself. He had his excuses; plenty had happened to him. He could only dream what had happened to Rosa.

'You –' Rosa was shouting. 'You – you _snake_ – are you even listening to me?'

Tom ignored her, trying to push past. Rosa slapped him round the face.

If it had been anyone else, something would have happened. His anger would have sparked visibly, teasing the flames out of the fireplace, or searing Rosa's skin. Tom rotated his jaw gingerly. It ached, but from yesterdays bruise. Rosa had barely hit him.

'You wonder why else I don't want to live here?' he asked softly. 'I owe you, Rosa. You stole my books. You hit me, more than once. People don't do things like that. Not anymore. You've reminded me of something quite important. I owe you a lesson,' Tom added, pushing past her. Rosa stepped swiftly out of the way, and was left alone in the drawing room.

He still felt like there were two of him. Tom was beginning to think he always would. But now they understood one another. The softer, fearful, _weaker_ version of himself…he may not approve of the road ahead, but at least he understood. He wasn't killing mudblood. The thought had never occurred to him before. He wasn't setting out to murder anyone. They were to be casualties, just like Rosa's son.

Rosa…Tom slipped into his allocated room, letting his eyes fall once again on the myriad of photographs. It was no longer a symbol of dotage, but obsession. Rosa had reminded him that muggles weren't worth the fight. She embodied them all so well – she was vain, cowardly, narrow-minded and _stupid. _He wasn't killing muggles, Tom explained to his other self. He was saving the ones worth saving.

Deep down Tom had a strong feeling he hated Rosa. Just that morning he'd seriously contemplated her demise. But his hatred had been shaken into temporary submission by his new discovery. Rosa wasn't just eccentric, or cruel. Cecile hadn't just been trying to scare him away. The woman had lost her mind. For someone who had been accused of insanity to the point where he'd genuinely begun to consider the possibility, Tom felt a bizarre empathy with her. Maybe that was too strong a word – sympathy, certainly. Tom shook himself mentally, focussing on the photographs. It would pass. It had better pass. If he even considered staying with them – it could ruin everything.

Tom focussed on a single photograph, studying its occupant carefully. A teenager smiled for the camera, his arm wrapped around a pretty young woman with pin curls and lipstick that could be discerned even through the greyscale. The similarities were striking, but as he looked the differences became more pronounced. _Were you happy here, Robert? _he thought dully. _You've been here long enough. _Tom smiled suddenly, not taking his eyes of the picture. He'd just had a rather fantastic idea. It might even help Rosa get over her obsession – if she didn't crack first.

A/N: I don't know if the poem seems out of place. I could have chosen one better related to the themes – but anti-war ranting is kind of one of my themes lol. Anyway, Wilfred Owen's is an incredibly expressive poet and think it's amazing that he can relate his experiences to words in such a way – yes, probably unsurprisingly, I love war poems. And he did actually grow up near where I've based this.

And yeah, this is getting a bit confused. I'll go back and sort it out soon; especially the first chapter as the ideas of had while it developed might change the mood of that a little. But not now – now, all my brain is focussed on AS exams. Bloody history. Wish me luck :(


	10. Oliver

Disclaimer: yes, I hereby disclaim all things to do with the Potter.

Chapter 10 I: Oliver

Tom eyes stirred gently out of sleep, his gentle movements disguising his panic. He couldn't quite remember the dream, but he could remember the sick, empty feeling that it left behind. He still recognised the shivers passing over his skin as if the cold creatures still crawled across it, squirming around him, the scratch marks on his chest and neck where he'd tried to tear them off.

'Wake him up,' whispered Grace from somewhere around Tom's head.

'You wake 'im up,' replied Oliver sharply.

'You told me not to.'

'I never.'

'You did. Besides, you've known him longer.'

'Aye, and I'm not stupid enough to wake 'im. We have rules about 'im. If 'e's sleeping, let him lie, if 'e's dreaming, run like 'ell.'

Tom smirked beneath his pillow. He'd heard that one a fair few times in the orphanage. It was nice to know they were still afraid of him.

'What if we just –'

'Grace leave 'im; 'e'll wake up in his own time!'

'We don't have time. He'll get hurt –'

'You'll both get hurt if you don't get out of here and let me sleep,' said Tom irritably, the novelty of still being feared instantly replaced by sheer irritation.

'But the bombers!' Grace moaned. 'Aunty Rosa said to get you up!'

'There aren't any bombers,' Tom sighed, turning over to face the wall. 'It's safe. That's why were all stuck here, isn't it? You were dreaming.'

'Aunty Rosa said –'

'Well tell dear _Aunty Rosa_ that I'd rather stay here. Now go on down to Grace's imaginary shelter like good little children, unless you want your legs blown off.'

'The bombs aren't here yet.'

Tom scowled. 'I never said the bombers were going to do it. Go on, off you go.'

'You've got to come with us,'

'Grace, I don't care.' Ignoring the child's protests he pulled the covers over his head. 'Go away.'

'But –'

'Don't make me hurt you, Grace. Not over a dream. It's not worth it.'

There was a very tense pause, the silence dragging on for nearly half a minute. Tom soon relaxed, and began attempting to remember his own dream. It hadn't just been snakes, though that was the only image he could recall in his mind. He hated remembering dreams; it was so frustrating, knowing the pictures were just out of his mind's eye. There had been a real story to it this time, a real, normal dream – the snake had just been the ending. The punishment.

Tom suddenly found his train of thought rudely interrupted. Oliver had ripped the blankets off him, now standing terrified by his bed, the sheets in pile on the ground, as if dropping them could have absolved the boy from his crime. The dream vanished, even taking the images of the snakes with it. Oliver quailed under the look Tom gave him.

'What do you want Oliver?' he said coldly, not taking his eyes off the boy. 'Do you want to make me angry? Because if it is, you're well on your way to getting it.' He paused waiting for a reply but Oliver seemed frozen to the spot. Grace was gone, he noticed. Probably to spread her ridiculous rumour around the rest of the house. 'Now I want to go back to sleep, so I strongly suggest –'

'You've got to come,' Oliver interrupted. 'Gracie – I mean – Grace ain't lying. The warden's been knocking on doors all night – everyone else is on their way out. You know they'll go for the big 'ouses first,' he added, spurred on by Tom's silence. 'And they might not 'it you, but they might.'

'And?'

Oliver's eyes widened. 'And you don't deserve to _die_. Not really. Devil shouldn't die by his own means. Ain't right.'

Tom still didn't speak, vaguely relishing the boy's discomfort. The majority of his thoughts, however, were somewhere else entirely. The orphans had missed the first waves of evacuations, and the lack of activity that stretched on did nothing to inspire the matron of the time to get things organised. It had been a long, dull summer, going through the motions of war in circumstances a person could easily mistake for peace. Tom for one had been extremely bored, something that spelled disaster for the other children.

Alienated and feared he was well into his habit of uneasy sleep and violent awakenings. He'd been asleep when the first raid had come, in symphony of roaring engines, wailing sirens and the screech of metal through air. The orphans hadn't heard anything. They mind didn't make the connection. And when the walls began to shake, and the people joined the music with their screaming in the streets? They'd thought it was _him_.

Of course he'd been annoyed. They were all so _stupid_. A gang of the older ones had charged into his dormitory, joined by those forced to sleep there every night. Tom wasn't sure what they'd planned to do, but when they caught him awake, staring out the window at the unrecognisable scene of planes and luminous searchlights that was the London skyline, they'd lost their nerve. The younger ones still weren't convinced he was innocent. After all, he seemed to control everything else in their lives.

Devil shouldn't die by his own means. Oliver's mind, it seemed, worked the same way as the other orphans: Tom was everything that was wrong with their blinkered little world. There was no room for any other kind of evil; it was Tom or nothing. It had never occurred to him before how much damage he was doing to the children by acting the way he did. Ruling by terror had affected some of the weaker one psychologically. He didn't particularly care, but it was interesting.

'I don't bring the bombers, Oliver,' he said calmly, almost patronisingly.

'You bring everything else.'

And suddenly, Tom cared. He cared what would drive the orphans to a point where they would honestly believe he was capable of instigating an air raid. He cared that Oliver was so totally afraid of him.

'What did I do to you?'

The silence hung in the air, and then stretched. Oliver had lost all his urgency, staring at the floorboards with an unnerving intensity. Footsteps could be heard downstairs, a slamming door as the last of house's occupants scrambled into the street. Outside a voice could be heard, screeching something about a photograph. Dear psychotic Rosa. At least she was consistent.

Oliver was still focussed on ground. Exhausted after so many interrupted nights and more than a little irritated by the prospect of having his life threatened by yet another air raid, Tom was beginning to lose patience.

'Oliver. Answer me.'

Silently, his face set in a mask not unlike Tom's own, Oliver rolled up his left sleeve. There, vivid scarlet on his forearm, was a strange mark – a handprint of someone a good four or five years younger than Tom, twisted and lengthened by Oliver's own growth. Oliver let his sleeve drop.

'That's what you did to me,' he said unnecessarily. 'When you were asleep. So don't try and pretend to me you're normal. You know 'ow many people you've marked like that? Some of them 'ave got away from you, got themselves new families. But they've still got that scar.'

Gaining control of his emotions had always been a high priority for Tom. The ability to switch of guilt and remorse had been mastered years ago. And right now, watching Oliver's expressionless face, Tom couldn't remember how he was meant to feel. He was almost disappointed. He'd expected something more than a strange scar.

'It's nothing,' he said, calmly voicing his thoughts. 'Nothing worth founding so much fear on.'

''Spect you'll say stranger things 'ave 'appened,' Oliver muttered. 'Well I 'aven't seen them. Not unless you were there. And you got Grace, didn't you? I saw 'er 'ands. I knew it were you.'

Tom shrugged. There was nothing he could say. He wouldn't apologise for accidents; not unless he felt even vaguely guilty about them. He had slipped back into not caring. Oliver was just like every other orphan. Every other muggle. Cowardly, narrow-minded, and stupid.

'Are you going to just stand around here, or are you heading down to the shelter? Apparently there's an air raid.'

'They don't have a shelter, mister,' said Oliver fearfully. 'Just a great old church.'

'A church? Fantastic, oh yes, that'll protect you from the bombs when even the London underground has trouble staying intact.' Tom sat up and was pleased to see and Oliver take a nervous step back. 'Go to the church, I'll catch up. _Go_!' he added angrily as they hesitated, and didn't climb out of bed until he'd scrambled out of the door.

Of course he didn't intend to go anywhere near the church – it was one of the first places the aircraft would aim for. Nothing would be more demoralising than the loss of a place of worship. He intended to go somewhere safe, like the forests outside the village unless – Tom glanced up at the window and swore under his breath. There shone the moon, a rich buttery yellow against the charcoal clouds, beautiful yet unmistakably full. If he was smart enough not to take shelter in the church then he was smart enough not to hide in an unknown forest during the wolf's moon. There had to be somewhere, Tom thought vaguely, quickly changing into day clothes and heading out the door.

It wasn't like him not to think his plans through. The immediacy of the situation had wiped his mind blank and left him wandering the village streets in the dark.

He'd been outside during air raids before in London, dodging the sad piles of rubble and the ragamuffin looters that darted through the abandoned houses. He'd often laugh at them – they were petty thieves, filching small prizes like cheap jewellery and food. Precious to them, perhaps, but Tom knew there were far more valuable things in the world than loaves of bread and pretty paste necklaces.

There was no rubble in the village; no derelict houses; no looters furtively stalking through the alleyways with armfuls of trivial treasure. Every window was dark, every light extinguished – more than once Tom had stumbled on the uneven road with a muttered oath and an angry gesture at the old fashioned street lamp. An unsophisticated reaction, perhaps, but a necessary one.

'Tom!'

Tom groaned, then glanced over his shoulder just in time to see Min running toward him, her usually unmoved hair streaming down her shoulders, a tartan dressing gown at least two sizes too big wrapped hastily around her more for decency than warmth.

'Min go up to the church.'

'That's where I'm going – I came to find you, come on –'

'I'm not going,' said Tom flatly, shaking the girl off as she tried to grab her wrist. 'It's no safer in there than anywhere else – probably less safe, considering it's a large stone building with a great cross on the spire light pouring out of the windows.'

'What is it really?' asked Min kindly. Tom paused for a second and Min managed to seize his arm and begin pulling him in the direction of the church. 'I know some people don't think magic and religion mix, believe me, I've met some of them, but there are plenty that do –'

'It's not that,' Tom snapped.

'Then what is it?'

'I…don't know. It's not safe. Something's going to happen Min, I can feel it.'

Tom wasn't lying. He could feel it in his chest, putting pressure a sense of concern he didn't even know he had. He was worried for these people, as if his being there would hurt them somehow. He was even worried for Rosa, though he was still subconsciously happily planning his revenge.

'Where else are you going to go?' asked Min calmly. 'Safety in numbers, and all that.'

'I don't think the maxim applies to air raids.'

'I think you can afford to lower yourself for one night. Trust them to look after you.'

Miles away, a sudden light flashed across the fields. Not a bomb, but a searchlight. Tom scowled and began walking toward the church, leaving Min to hurry along behind him.

A/N: Yes, chapter 10 I. Mostly because usually when I start a new chapter I start a new scene or time, but the next one runs straight on. Anyway, though you may not notice a thing, this seems weird to me lol. R&R people, I love getting your comments – and they make me feel guilty when I don't update :P

O, and regarding characterisation - I'm guessing if you didn't like him at the end of the last chpater, you didn't like the way he dealt with oliver either. I did have a mental image of Tom going out into the corridor after talking to Rosa and trying very hard not to laugh, but I ignored it. Basically I'm trying to make it so he sees somthing of himself in these people. But yeah, I think he's back on track after this.

And yeah, I'm a poem skipper to. But until i think of something better, I'm leaving it in


	11. In Which More Than One Story is Told

Disclaimer: I wonder if anyone's been done for plagiarism after posting an undisclaimered fanfiction? Well I don't fancy being the first. Nothing vaguely potterish belongs to me.

Chapter Ten II: In which more than one story is told

The ominous feeling intensified as they strode up the sweeping steps to the oak doors and slipped inside as quietly as they could. Tom's eyes swept the scene, taking in every detail. He didn't like churches, but it wasn't for the reason Min thought. He didn't like churches for the same reason he didn't like hiding on the underground, or in air raid shelters, or being followed around by a gaggle of imagination starved children. It may have been a cliché, but Tom had no desire for friends or even acquaintances. He liked to be alone.

Families sat in the pews, huddled in hastily packed bed sheets, mothers trying to calm squalling babies or hushing the rowdier children. There were no fathers. Edward, Greg and Cecile sat menacingly in the choir stalls, all watching Tom with narrow eyes. Tom smiled icily at them, then yawned and followed Min. He was in no mood for a fight, especially without his wand.

They had been sitting silently – Tom on a great wide windowsill of a stain glass window depicting the crucifixion, Min leaning against the wall below him – for at least two minutes before she asked again.

'So then why didn't you want to come in here?'

'It's not safe,' Tom snapped, looking up at the stain glass windows. Flagstone and wood was no protection against a bomb.

'I know that,' Min replied calmly, stretching in an uncannily catlike way. Tom half expected her to meow. 'They know that. Even the little ones know, but you don't see them shouting it out. And besides, it's safer than standing outside – what were you thinking?'

Tom felt his temper flare up inside him. 'I was thinking, _I don't want to go in the bloody church_. Look, you can apparate and I can try. Let's get out of here before we're blown up, shall we. Where do you want to go?' he asked, shooting Min one of his utterly false but oh-so-popular smiles. He couldn't help it – it was almost a reflex. The omnious feeling had waned - he was incredibly bored.

Apparently Min was too, because she dropped her usual calculating demeanour to smile back. 'Durham.'

Tom raised his eyebrows. 'I don't even know where that is.'

'About four hours up North from here. Takes less time if you apparate, of course.'

'You can go anywhere in England, and you choose Scotland?'

'It's not in Scotland. And Scotland's not actually in England.'

Tom took a deep, calming breath. 'Anywhere in Britain, then.'

'Oh, you couldn't go anywhere in Britain,' said Min lightly, looking ridiculously pleased that she was succeeding in irritating Tom. 'Say if you aimed for Dover now. You'd splinch yourself. Honestly,' she added, grinning. 'I've said it before. A smart boy like you ought to know some geography.'

'I could make it,' said Tom, his interest in the conversation waning rapidly. He wasn't used to losing verbal battles – especially not to smug Gryffindors.

Min smiled incredulously. 'You're what, fourteen years old? You couldn't apparate to save your life.'

'You'd be surprised what I can do,' Tom muttered coolly, glancing away from the window. There stood a little clique of children, headed by Oliver and Grace. He wasn't sure how long they'd been there. Apparently they weren't afraid of him after all. It was ridiculous – a week ago – an _hour _ago – Oliver wouldn't have dared go near him – now he was standing there like a second shadow. A small, annoying second shadow that was smiling and talking far too much.

'We're scared,' he said in a matter of fact tone, the nine or so children behind him nodding.

'And what do you want me to do about it?'

'_Tom_,' Min hissed.

'You're not scared,' Grace squeaked, pulling at her pink hat with trembling fingers.

'No.'

'Why not?'

_Because I'm not a seven-year-old idiot with a gothic horror fetish, _thought Tom viciously, memories of his forced fairytales still fresh in his mind.'Why are you scared?'

'Because of the bombs,' Grace muttered, as if the bombers would hear him and aim a few her way. 'Don't you worry we'll be hit?'

Tom glanced at Oliver, but the boy was staring resolutely at the ground.

Tom sighed, wondering how to get rid of them. 'There are far more frightening things.'

'Like what?'

_Oh God, _thought Tom, _she wants another story. Two o' clock in the morning during an air raid and she wants a story_. And judging by the hopeful looks on the other children's faces, so did they. 'Lots of things,' he said finally, impatience and spite biting his voice as he finally caught Oliver's eye. 'Things far too frightening for a little boy scared of a few bombs.'

'I'm not scared,' said Grace proudly, though she still plucked agitatedly at her hat. Her fingers were bandaged. Tom waited almost curiously for the pang of guilt, but it didn't come. 'Please tell us.'

'Tell you what?'

'What's more frightening than dying.'

Tom considered it for a few seconds. What _was_ more frightening than dying? Death was quick, death was easy. Then it came to him. 'Staying alive.'

He caught Min's eye and she smiled at him, as if grudgingly impressed by his answer. But of course, every answer was followed by Grace's inevitable question.

'Why are you afraid of staying alive?'

'Imagine you lived forever,' said Tom, sighing in exasperation at their blank faces. Fine, if they wanted a story that badly, he'd give one to them. 'All right – no, Grace, there's no once upon a time. And no, there's no happily ever after either.

'Just imagine a man. This man controlled the stars and the moon, the wind and the rain, the nightmares that only live in your mind.' Tom let his gaze flicker to Oliver for a seoncd, smiling softly at the palpable suspicion on the boy's face. 'He could even control the bombs falling overhead.'

Grace raised her eyebrows, but they were lost to the rim of her hat. 'Was he God?'

Tom nearly laughed, but he could feel the Grey's cold stares on his back, as well as a fair few of the mothers who had let their precious children wander towards him. He could even see the vicar out of the corner of his eye. 'No.'

'Was he the Devil?' Oliver asked bravely.

'Of course not.'

'Was he magic?'

'Yes,' said Tom, after only a moment's hesitation.

'Tom –' Min began sharply, but Tom carried on. A bomb came crashing down nearby, accompanied by the nervous shrieks of adults, but the children didn't even flinch. They were listening to the epic tale of a tragic immortal, forced to watch his friends and family die around him, his country torn by war, all without ever ageing a day.

Ten minutes another bomb fell nearby and Tom was the only one who paused, but he carried on swiftly, explaining in great detail how the man who had sold his soul was now on a quest to win back his mortality. Soon he realised he was no longer being interrupted.

The tale carried on even after the explosions ceased; the man had fallen in love with his soul mate, a beautiful, kind, intelligent woman only to go insane with fear and rage as he saw her ageing and murder her horrifically, insisting to himself he was keeping her young forever. He cast the final images like spells, describing every detail; from the dreadful silence of the room in which the man sat for weeks, clutching the fast decaying body, to the young man hanging from the gallows in front of a jeering crowd, crying for a broken neck, not his dead wife.

'So once upon a time there was a man. He could control the wind and the rain, the stars and the moon, the dark creatures that lurked in the forests and the nightmares that only live in your mind. He wished to conquer death, yet now he wishes nothing more than to die –' Tom looked around him, dully surprised to see every face turned on his. The adults looked fierce, their eyes sparking righteous anger but the children were enthralled. Every wide-eyed, innocent, fearful expression was focussed on him, hanging on his every depraved word. He could make them believe anything, he could make them do anything – or, for once in his life he could forget about power, forget about the chamber, and his future, and simply finish the story. He could be the other, weaker Tom, surrounded by muggles and be happy. 'He could even control the bombs falling overhead –'

BOOM.

No one sobbed. No one screamed. No one hurried through their prayers in a last ditch attempt at salvation. There was no time for any of that. It had probably been a last pot shot from the pilots, not even aimed at them. It didn't hit the church, just clipped the outside – but the explosion was enough to shatter the beautiful window behind Tom into a shattered rainbow of coloured shards and bring the wall down on him, Min and all the children listening at his feet.

A/N: The end is in sight. But I strongly dislike that story. It seems put on, and it's far too long. Unnatural. Maybe I should have made more of grace's demands. Actually these chapters were the first things I wrote, back in April last year, so the characters might be a bit fuzzy too. I've edited the hell out of it…anyway yes, I'm waffling – please leave a review and we can finally get this thing finished off.


	12. War and Other Games

Disclaimer: I am not the creator of Harry Potter. Neither Tom nor Min belong to me. Frankly it's al rather disappointing. O well, on with the proceedings:

Chapter eleven: War and other games

Tom groaned, shifting on the ground where he lay amidst the glass and broken wood. Something was burning. He couldn't hear anything but a high, keening whistling in his ears, but otherwise he was fine. _That's impossible_, his dazed mind told him firmly. _A church just fell on you. Of course you're dead._

Someone was lying painfully on top of his legs – he could feel their sharp, panicked breaths. The person was obviously more awake than he was, because they were already sitting up, shaking him violently by the shoulder. Shocked and exhausted, Tom let himself be shaken, until the ringing finally lessened and blurred into sound.

'Tom. Get up. Tom, please get up – oh God –'

Tom opened his eyes, gingerly lifting himself up on his elbows. Min was the one shaking him – her eyes were wild, her face grey with shock, one arm still wrapped tightly around a semi-conscious Oliver.

'What did you _do_?' she whispered fearfully, helping him up.

'I didn't do it,' Tom snapped, but then he saw what she was talking about.

The entire back wall of the church had been reduced to debris, the floor a mass of stone and broken glass. But the ground where Tom Min, and half of Oliver lay was clear. They sat in a perfect circle, framed by destruction. Dully surveying the scene Tom remembered the last word he'd bellowed before the roof came down on their heads. Not "duck" or "move" or something that might have saved the children. He'd saved his own life, automatically screaming "Protego".

Min had tried. She'd grabbed the nearest child and thrown herself over them both. She was a witch, for god's sake! Tom glared at her, as if it was somehow her fault. She could have done more. She could have tried.

Oliver was fighting not to cry; dark eyes red rimmed as he and Min tried to shift a hunk of weathered stone that had come flying in and broken his ankle. Tom's circle of protection had been meant for no one but himself.

Something above them shifted. Glass tinkled and rubble rattled to the ground. Tom was on his feet in an instant, ready to scramble to safety, but the fallen structure groaned, and held steady. Min moved on from Oliver, oblivious.

'Where are you,' she whispered, her hair, impossibly free from dust and debris hanging in her eyes. A hand came to sweep it back, obviously unused to the loose locks. The borrowed dressing gown had fallen away to reveal an equally respectable white nightgown. She scanned the scene around them, her voice rising to a shout that resonated in what was left of the church. 'Tom, where is she?'

The adults were safe, hanging back by the pews, as was Edward's gang and a few of the younger ones who buried themselves in their mothers' arms. But at a glance Tom knew at least four of the ones who had sat attentively at his feet were dead, and if they didn't start shifting some of the stones, the rest would soon follow.

He knelt down again, pulling out his wand, but Min caught him by the arm.

'Look,' she muttered, before starting her own work by hand.

The adults were walking towards him, led by Rosa, who looked both furious and triumphant. Tom had to admit it did look a bit suspicious, him lying in the centre of circle of safety while all those around him were crushed or bleeding to death. The wand disappeared up his sleeve and temporarily out of sight.

'Now might be a good time to pretend you don't know me.'

Min didn't look up. 'Tom – you saved my life.'

Tom laughed mirthlessly before climbing properly to his feet. 'Not intentionally, I assure you.'

'You!' Rosa positively shrieked, pointing an accusatory finger straight him. 'You – what _are_ you?'

'Me, Madame?' said Tom innocently, making full use of his smile. 'Just an orphan. A rather lucky one,' he added, indicting to the spot where he had lain. 'But just an orphan. No one of real consequence. Unless you're willing to let me help.'

Min had left her place in the circle and was now helping the sobbing parents dig out their children. But no one was helping the orphans, or the evacuees. Tom rolled his eyes, disgusted at himself for having such a conscience – but before he could hurry over he was grabbed and frog-marched over to the vicar, who eyed him warily.

'_Help? _You planned this. Don't ask me how – you charmed those children –'

'Don't be ridiculous,' said Tom simply, shrugging of those who held him.

'You brought our church to the ground!'

'Actually that was a bomb. Maybe you were too caught up in the story –'

'You poison our children's minds, then murder them!'

'Firstly,' said Tom coldly, unable to keep the condescension from his tones. 'It was just a story. And as the message of the story was "don't sell your soul" I don't see what the problem is with that. Secondly I didn't murder them. As you may recall, a bomb fell on the church. It's made quite a mess, so if you'd let me –'

'Oliver said you knew where they'd fall,' said a sudden soft voice, carrying over the moans and sobs. Tom recognised Cecile's voice and he saw Oliver limping out of sight. Any lingering sympathy for the child, for the Greys – for any one he'd met since arriving in the village – vanished in an instant.

It was as if the scene had been split in two; those who were near him, digging amongst rocks for half-dead children, and those sitting unharmed and apparently indifferent in the still intact half of the church. Cecile was one of the latter, and she had just joined her mother's side. 'I heard them talking when mamma sent me in to wake him. You said they'd hit the church.'

'It's logic,' Tom snapped. _Don't lose your temper. Remember the mask. They may look down on you, they may not respect you, but at least they'll listen._ 'Those children need help, they're hurt –'

'They're getting the all help they need,' said Rosa coolly. 'They'll be in the local hospital within the hour. Those who can afford it, of course.'

In the rubble, Oliver was shouting Grace's name. Tom didn't turn around.

'Rosa has told us you're convinced you're practising the dark arts.'

Tom scowled, very aware that his temper was slowly slipping away from him. 'Do you even know what the dark arts _are_? Can you define each spell and its action? Unless your past is far more colourful than it appears, sir, I believe you are just as ignorant as Rosa is. Rest assured that you have no idea what you are talking about.'

'You're insane –'

'You're evil.'

This time it was not the priest who had spoken, but Cecile, safely shielded by her mother. Tom could only smirk at the fear on his face.

'Perhaps. It does seem to be the popular opinion at the moment.'

'Get out,' Rosa hissed, her face scarlet with rage. 'Get _out _– go back to London, go wandering around in an air raid like you wanted; just get out!'

Tom took a deep, calming breath. He couldn't let a group of muggles make him lose his control. _Remember the mask. _'Don't worry, I'm going home. I would however like the keys to your house. And that pathetic safe of yours. I want my books back.'

A ring of keys hit him in the chest, clattering to the ground before Tom could catch them. They had been thrown with such venom, such frustration that for a second Tom almost showed how upset he was. He was going to have to get used to people hating him, but this – Rosa may have run out of words, but her eyes spoke volumes.

'It was an accident!' Min's voice called out as Tom stooped to pick up the keys. She held a little blonde figure in her arms, bloody, but breathing, with Oliver spinning his fairytale in its ear. 'Tom didn't do anything wrong – he was _helping_, until you stopped him!' She looked around desperately at their stony faces and felt a sudden rush of anger. Why did muggles have to be so narrow-minded? They were pathetic – they were so _stupid_. A second later she felt horrified for thinking it.

'You've been taken in, my dear,' said Rosa coolly, laying a hand on Min's shoulder. 'Now,' she added, her expression completely devoid of emotion, 'be a good girl, and go find out who's injured and who's dead.'

'That's – how can you be so callous?'

'This is war, my dear.'

'_That's not an excuse! _Tom –' Min froze. He was gone. Silently, she turned back to Grace, knowing that without the whispered spells the child would have bled her life out long before the ambulance sirens came wailing over the unnecessary sound of the all-clear.

Tom swept about his room, throwing books and clothes into his pathetic little suitcase, his left hand tightly grasping his wand the whole time. He wouldn't put it past Rosa to call out the police – by this point his furious mind was sure of it; in a matter of moments he'd hear the sirens pulling up in the driveway. And he was in no mood to explain himself to the muggle authorities.

_You're being ridiculous. Calm down._

For nearly three whole second, Tom truly tried. Then, forcing the suitcase closed he seized the leather case and hurled it against the wall. The lock broke and clothes scattered – Tom smirked. It was amazing how much better the simple gesture could make him feel.

Once again, he was stuck. He'd carried out his original revenge: he'd charmed all the photos of Robert to look like him but that would wear off after a month or two – by which time, he hoped, Rosa would have thrown them all away. He had vaguely considered hanging their cat, but the foul little beast was keeping well out of his way. He needed something permanent, something to be remembered by…

It wasn't he fault he couldn't think. He was too angry – he was useless like this. Maybe he really could torch the house – or would they just think it was a stray bomb? Oliver would make the connection. Grace might, if she lived.

Grace could be dead. He didn't care. He'd marked her and Oliver and God knew how many other children, twisting their sense of reality to a point where they believed him to be on a par with Satan. But he didn't care. He was growing. This was Tom becoming how he needed to be. The rage vanished in an instant and Tom began to silently repack his suitcase, discarding a couple of crumpled shirts in favour of one of his books. Soon he wouldn't even care about not caring.

_You nearly let her adopt you. You were thinking about it. You nearly lost yourself._

That much was true. Even if was only for the briefest of moments; he'd been tempted to stay with Rosa and Cecile. That could have ruined everything. They'd pay for that.

'He'sup there Dr Bride.'

Tom froze at the sound of the voice, a ridiculous fear flooding through him. What did he have to be afraid of? Certainly not Rosa Grey.

'What did you say he looked like?' asked a second, male voice that Tom didn't recognise. Possibly a policeman, though he'd heard no sirens; the ambulance had long since faded into the distance. _Dr_ Bride. It was a psychiatrist. Of course. The bitch.

'Tall,' said Rosa distractedly. 'Dark haired, pale – he's the only one up there – can't you just get rid of him?'

They were right outside his door now. Tom felt extremely grateful that he'd locked it. He'd never consider paranoia a flaw again.

'Are you in there lad?'

Ignoring the man Tom forced the window open, setting the suitcase on the roof. For a second he hesitated. It was a long way down. He wasn't athletic. Far from it. But a will and a wand were more than enough to guide him down safely.

'What's his name?'

'I told you already,' came Rosa's quavering voice. 'I'd – I said before –'

Tom smiled gently, relishing the strange sense of power that came with this new development. So Rosa was afraid to say his name, was he? Tom's grin widened; he'd just had an idea. If Rosa didn't want to say Tom Riddle, then she could call him by a different name.

With a truly terrible smile, Tom pointed his wand at the door and spoke a single, indistinct word. Then with one last, satisfied glance around him, he bolted across the room and out the window.

A/N: And despite my desperate avoidence of the cliche, there it is. He lived. AndI know that after and explosion like that the whole ear ringing thing would go on for a lot longer, but for the rhythm's sake lets say I didn't realise lol. Review if you like

I've finished my exams :D And I never have to do history ever again. And you probably don't care about that at all, but I'm so bloody happy I'm telling everyone :D


	13. Epilogue: A Failed Attempt On Loose Ends

Epilogue – A few loose ends

The woman sat perfectly still, staring calmly into space. Bride knew enough of Rosa Grey to know this wasn't like her. He remembered her as a teenager – his mind wouldn't stretch to childhood. Pretty, horrifically energetic, yet with a kind of vivacious regality Bride had never seen before or since. And that simpering blonde waif – she was supposed to be her daughter? Cecile had inherited little of her mother's charm. Rosa had hoarded it all for her self.

And now it seemed to be lost.

There had been something about Rosa that had made her seem young. Everything about her, every aspects of her personality had created the glamour of youth. It had only been a few months since he had last seen Rosa, but Bride barely recognised the woman he saw before him. Blonde locks hung limp, pale skin folding into deep yet delicate creases where Bride was certain none had been before. Watery blue eyes stared out, unfocussed. A perfect picture of silent insanity.

'Rosa.'

Bride didn't expect a response. It was his seventh attempt in the last half hour, and Rosa hadn't so much as looked at him. The vacant eyes blinked, but there was nothing behind them. At least nothing that was willing to come out yet.

'I'm afraid we'll have to return you to your rooms soon,' said Bride carefully. Something flickered in Rosa's eyes: barely suppressed distaste. Apparently the wards weren't up to Rosa's standards.

The woman wasn't in shock. She wasn't catatonic. She was just too proud to talk.

'I have a few more people I need to talk to. Research. We're trying to piece together exactly what's happened to you.'

Silence. But Bride saw Rosa shift slightly in her seat, sitting up a little straighter. It seemed she wanted to regain herself before speaking.

A smile lit up pallid lips. Rosa was twenty again.

'You're giving him too much credit.' Her tone was, for its part, haughty and aloof, but Rosa could not hide the tremors in her voice and hands.

'Who?'

The smile vanished as soon as it had appeared. 'What I say – everything comes out wrong. You don't understand.'

'Tell me who you're talking about.'

'I've already told you. How many times?' Rosa's began to speak faster, anger sparking a different kind of life into her eyes. 'There should be know confusion. I know whom I mean. Ask Cecile –'

Bride nodded slowly, memories of his meeting with Cecile rising in his mind. The girl had given him a perfect explanation, delivered so quickly and coolly Bride couldn't tell whether it was just well rehearsed or completely false. Cecile had told him the family had recently received a batch of evacuees. One had borne a worrying resemblance to her late brother. The boy was both vindictive and disturbed and had pushed her mother to the edge of her already precarious sanity before attempting to run away.

"Attempting" held a greater meaning than Bride had first realised. There had been several escape attempts, failed on every occasion purely because the boy refused to leave his possession behind. Angered and, in some cases, severely bruised, the militia of parents had resorted to locking the boy in one room and his precious suitcase in another. By morning both were gone.

It was most likely the other evacuees had rescued him. They certainly seemed t only ones who didn't agree with Cecile's version of event. In fact, if their hints were anything to go by, it was Rosa who was at fault, not the boy. Well, not just the boy.

'Cecile has explained the situation,' he sighed. 'Rosa, this boy –'

'So you do know.'

'Yes. He's missing,' Bride added, testing the water. 'I need to know what happened between the two of you. If we can find out exactly why –'

'Don't worry. He's fine.'

'Rosa, this is serious. Our guess is he's headed to London. That's a long way.'

'He's fine.'

'Rosa –'

'He's fine. He's safe. I _know._'

'This is a real person, Rosa, in real danger. I'm not talking about Robert –'

'Neither am I!'

Rosa scowled. 'That brat. The evil, depraved –'

'_Grey_!' Rosa's ace contorted suddenly; she leapt to her feet, a string of relatively sophisticated swear words streaming from her lips. 'Grey. Robert. Robert Matthew William Gr – God!'

'Sit down, Rosa.'

'That is not what I meant to say!'

'I know,' said Bride sympathetically, but Rosa wasn't soothed. In fact, she let out an almost bark-like shriek, making Bride jump horribly. Embarrassed, he decided it was time to bring the interview to an end and headed for the door.

'You don't know!' Rosa was practically screaming. 'Forget me and your stupid interview then! It's pointless anyway! You won't find him!'

'I'll be back tomorrow,' said Bride softly, moving to close the door on the woman and block out the sound of her voice.

'_You won't find him._'

The words had been spoken with a remarkable calmness, but they echoed in Bride's as if Rosa had shrieked them. Even as he headed down the pristine corridor to collect his next interviewee, they stayed fresh in his thoughts. For the past few days Rosa had made next to no sense, indecisive to the point of schizophrenia, particularly regarding the evacuee boy or her son. _You won't find him. _And constantly telling him the boy was all right. She was so certain.

Bride paused outside the door of his office were the latest in a seemingly never-ending line of children sat waiting for him. As far as he was concerned, there was no mystery. Grief had eaten away at Rosa and the appearance of the evacuee combined with the shock of the bombing had pushed her over the edge. The confusion of names was a little strange, yes, but nothing he couldn't deal with in time. As for the boy's disappearance…Bride's only emotion was disappointment at not being able to talk to him personally. He was certainly sick of conducting interviews on the police's behalf.

A teenage girl was waiting for him in his office, hands folded in her lap. Everything about her was prim and neat, from her perfect twin plaits to her thin lipped, no nonsense expression. As a devout follower of order and reason, Bride took and instant liking to her, treating her to handshake and smile as he sat down – a simple gesture which the other children had not been privileged to.

The thin lips twisted into an amused, almost patronising smile. Bride's affect for the girl diminished considerably.

'Your name? Paperwork,' he added, in way of apology. The smile didn't flicker.

'Minerva McGonagall.'

'Do you know why you're here?'

'Oh yes, sir.'

It was a perfectly civil answer. Far more so than some of the others he had been getting. But there was a lot more than civility behind her words.

'We need to establish exactly what happened between Mrs Grey and Tom in the days leading up to his disappearance.'

'Why?'

Bride blinked. 'Sorry?'

'I just wondered why you're doing all this. I mean, Tom's gone. There's nothing any of this can do for Rosa. They'll just put her in a sanatorium and in a month no one will remember Tom was even here.'

'What is you relationship with Mr Riddle?'

The girl fixed him with a steely stare. 'A friend. Only since we've been here. Will this take long?' she added after a pause. 'Only I've promised myself to the children's ward at St Margaret's, and it's going to take at least half an hour to drive down.'

'They're sweet children,' said Bride casually, wondering if he should try and coax the necessary information from her or ask her outright. 'Minerva –'

'Min.'

'Min. We –'

'The generic "we".' The girl smiled. 'Sorry. It's been a sleepless few days. Lord knows why I came down here in the first place. I know what you want, but it's going to make your job a fair bit more difficult to hear it. Tom didn't set out to send Rosa over the edge. The shock of the explosion rattled her nerves.'

Repetitiveness and mediocrity had stolen nearly all of Bride's skill as a psychologist. However, he had retained some skill. Like how to tell when a person was lying – or at the very least, unsure of the truth of their words.

'She was irrational enough to start with,' the girl went on quickly, apparently noticing Bride's calculating stare. 'Offering adoption one minute and clocking him the next. You shouldn't treat children like that,' she added, cool anger bleeding into her tones. 'Especially not one in Tom's position.'

'I'd like to meet him.'

The girl scoffed. 'I'm certain you wouldn't. Everything's complicated enough as it is.'

Bride agreed wholeheartedly with this statement, though the pang of disappointment wouldn't go away. 'The other children gave me an interesting impression of him. Some descriptions were almost frightening.'

'Cecile's exaggerating.'

'Not just Cecile. I'm –'

'Sir,' said the girl, no longer sounding angry but both sharp and pitying, 'there's really no point. There's nothing _to_ work out. Tom's just an extremely clever person who is easily bored. Focus on Rosa. Tom will be fine.'

Bride, who had been carefully blotting out the girl's words to the tune of vaguely cultured piece of classical music he'd heard on the radio that morning, looked up sharply. 'Are you so certain?'

'Yes.'

'Has he contacted you?'

'No.'

'Then how can you be so sure?' Bride cast his mind back through the myriad of interviews. Not one person had seemed remotely worried that this teenage was attempting a one hundred and fifty mile journey with nothing but a suitcase of books.

'If you knew him, you wouldn't be worried. You shouldn't worry,' said the girl in what Bride took to be a very maternal term.

'Rosa is still confusing the two. She calls Tom by her son's name, and knows she's doing it. But she can't stop.'

It was as if a light had gone out behind the girl's face. She quickly broke eye contact, getting to her feet. 'I have to leave.'

'What?'

'I want to get back to the hospital before visiting hours end.'

'Very well,' said Bride, pulling a pile of forms towards him. 'Wait,' he added as the girl stood. 'I need you middle names as well.'

'Why?' asked the girl suspiciously, a blush curling across her cheeks.

'Lord knows. But I have to put it in.'

Now blushing furiously, the girl murmured something incomprehensible.

'Sorry?'

'Pallas,' she muttered, before slipping out the door and out of sight.

'Minerva Pallas McGonagall,' said Bride, barely registering that there was no one to listen to his musings. 'Well you're obviously smarter a smart one. Maybe I should take you advice.'

With no little trepidation, he glanced at the pile of interview forms as well as the one he held before him. Quickly, before he changed his mind, Bride pushed the pile aside and headed back to Rosa's ward.

Miles away in London, Tom Riddle lay comfortably in his candlelit room, flipping over a few pages of his textbook with a satisfied smile. Everything was back as it should be. It had taken a good few days to recover from the massive apparition, but he wasn't in the mood to sleep. There was less than three weeks left before he went back to Hogwarts. There were plans to be made.

Besides, Tom wasn't alone – several new additions had turned up during the orphans' absence. The ones at the other end of the dorm were brothers, apparently. Friendly, lively little children, according to Hardy. They were currently sleeping in shifts, taking it in turns to keep an eye on Tom.

Everything as it should be.

A/N: My god this is late. Time slips away – as has the audience, probably. I just wanted to make it as good as possible. It just turned out rather drawn out. Oh well. That was my first real fanfiction, everybody. toddles off to type up new one… R&R for the last time


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